Poetry: English Portfolio
Hot Mess
Chapped cheeks take the full force of wintery gusts.
Snow sticks to the clumps in her mascara,
flakes as platelets fusing eyelashes shut.
Kohl streaks line her face,
smudged from wind-stung eyes to lipsticked mouth.
Nothing in her stomach but a bottle of red wine,
the tannic alcohol sloshes around her insides
and her world spins.
Empty cigarette cases line her purse,
and she leaves a trail of burnt filters behind her.
The cracks in the sidewalk grab at her ankles.
Her stilettos slip on the ice and she slides,
arms and legs flailing like a ballerina learning to pirouette.
She’s lost her coat but her long hair keeps her warm.
Her scanty party dress shines, the streetlights reflecting off sequins,
casting circles on the pavement like an errant disco ball.
She used to flirt with the limelight, delight in popping flashbulbs,
red carpets and designer gowns,
until one day her fifteen minutes expired,
and no one cared that she was gone, swallowed by the fame monster.
Fleeting was the façade of her former life,
spinning away through the night.
Her ring sings falsetto as she hurls it to meet the pavement,
and the ersatz diamond shatters into glass shards.
In the street a limo rumbles by.
A horde of paparazzi runs after it
and nobody stops to notice her.
She’s just another has-been.
The thought makes her smile.
Already Dead: A Villanelle
Life is an unraveling thread,
and reality’s a dream to occupy idle minds.
I think I’m already dead.
I no longer feel; my heart is carved of lead.
I breathe in tranquility and exhale bitterness.
Life is an unraveling thread.
And while it is true that I have bled,
which ought to be proof of life ongoing,
I think I’m already dead.
Your long-held fears you now must shed;
searing shame, ugly guilt are useless burdens.
Life is an unraveling thread.
You must bear the torch of hope ahead,
for optimism’s light must never be extinguished.
But I think I’m already dead.
Continue to live and be not filled with dread;
for your journey is just beginning.
But my life is an unraveling thread.
I think I’m already dead.
Surgeon’s Sonnet
His hands shake and his knuckles are white. His
palms sweat profusely under latex gloves.
Fingers form fists, an illusion of calm,
and the quaking stops for just a moment.
Broad, capable hands now seem so timid
when faced with his first solo surgery.
Monitors’ beeping quiets and fades-
he can only hear his heart hammering,
pounding away to a staccato beat.
His mask mutes the sting of antiseptic.
His patient holds his attention, and he
hopes, prays his training has prepared him well.
Can he go through with this? Is he ready?
A deep breath. “Making the first incision.”
A Mother’s Funeral
I don’t mind if you say her eyes
were closed in deserved repose,
for she certainly earned her rest.
You can recall the crushing weight of the crowd,
filing forward en masse
to pay final respects to a loved one lost.
Compare the bereaved congregation’s somber silence to a Hudson Bay woolen blanket,
heavy and stifling instead of warm and comfortingly scratchy-
the church’s atmosphere suffocating with a coffin under the cross.
But I have a problem
if you describe her body, lying there in eternal slumber,
as peaceful, as though she but slipped off this mortal coil,
without toil, without heartbreak, when
you were there to witness her nine-year-long battle for life:
As her body and mind were slowly consumed by disease,
as her senses were stripped and her eyes lost their sight,
as her legs lost their mobility and her independence dwindled,
but most importantly,
as her love never wavered and her faith remained pure,
as her body succumbed to death, but her spirit stayed strong.
Through the Looking Glass: An Adventure in Gaga’s Closet
Carefully orchestrated get-ups line her closet walls:
a clear latex sheath, hard plastic unforgiving on tender shoulder blades;
a monstrous poncho adorned with severed Kermit heads, making a statement about society’s acceptance of fur as fashion;
a flesh-toned leotard, glittering plastic bubbles protruding from every angle;
a rubber gown with Elizabethan collar and twenty-foot train (royal attire indeed);
a white fur cape, bear’s head trailing on the carpet;
a metallic Egyptian headdress, with matching bra and panties, gold veneer glinting;
a letterman’s jacket, silver studs piercing aged leather.
Wigs and hairpieces grace the shelves:
a spiky blonde halo, reminiscent of the virgin Madonna;
a giant bow, doll’s hair dyed to match her hue;
a three-foot-tall beehive, braids winding from base to tip;
a lavender bob, bangs hanging below brows and falling into eyes;
a set of school-bus yellow extensions, mismatched with platinum blonde layers on top.
Shoes are scattered on the floor, tossed in a corner, trailing along edges:
a pair of tottering high ten-inch McQueen gold-flaked heels to elevate her tiny frame to larger-than-life heights;
a pair of shiny gray Louboutins, signature red soles scuffed from city sidewalks and rough stage flooring;
a pair of white thigh-high heeled boots, splatters of fake blood from a gory performance marring their glossy surface.
Make-up and accessories stationed under the Hollywood mirror and stage lights:
a jar of blue eyeshadow for the Bowie lightning bolt;
a tube of licorice-black lipstick for drawing a cupid’s bow on a pale smile, closed lips concealing wicked teeth;
a stuffed raven as a grotesque headpiece;
a set of black rimmed sunglasses, lenses extending diagonally upwards in imitation of Mickey Mouse;
and the infamous disco stick, glowing softly from its seat of honor, reigning over all who dance in the dark.