fiver
I was thinking, each silver ring joined to the next. I am thinking, in the corner. Little box, gracious winged insect. You, and what you'll know of me. Someday, down to my every pore. My wings are like a construction-paper heart affixed to my back, and about as effective. But this is a practiced smile, put here by funeral processions, leather straps to my backside. Walks down runways, across stages. I live here, politely.
This is a practiced smile, goes well with dropped batons, a sequined top hat, a tail pinned to my ass and my nose painted black, moving backward. A smile, practically, times I wanted to remember buttons, unbuttonings. Unbuttonings that did not occur. Hand on my hip, and turn.
I have practiced this smile, I was thinking, a silver charm bracelet full of keys -- shiny silver poodle, rugged silver oil well, the state of Texas, a spinning heart, a heavy silver goat and a square miniature house. Practiced, I am, and practical. Buttons can stay buttoned, and this one, on my lips.
I was thinking how you should close your eyes right this second, and remember me in my swarming kindergarten classroom, overwhelmed with the louder children, the ones who know what the paste pot was for, who had heard of Jesus, even, who would say what they wanted, and loud enough to get it. I would like for you to come there, whisper the things I needed to know -- how to catch a pop fly, ways to cheat in math, how not to be the little apple, the girl whose hand is always held in the sweaty, stronger hands of other children. Pulled along.
I'm just thinking this, that quickly I might run my hands inside your shirt at the collar, too fast for you to remember to say "no" before you could only say yes. Quickly enough, my palms flat and warm, and then we are there, and maybe also I could practice my unbuttoning, my unzipping, and my untying.
Because I think, honestly, that there is room for a happy ending here. I really do.
This is a practiced smile, goes well with dropped batons, a sequined top hat, a tail pinned to my ass and my nose painted black, moving backward. A smile, practically, times I wanted to remember buttons, unbuttonings. Unbuttonings that did not occur. Hand on my hip, and turn.
I have practiced this smile, I was thinking, a silver charm bracelet full of keys -- shiny silver poodle, rugged silver oil well, the state of Texas, a spinning heart, a heavy silver goat and a square miniature house. Practiced, I am, and practical. Buttons can stay buttoned, and this one, on my lips.
I was thinking how you should close your eyes right this second, and remember me in my swarming kindergarten classroom, overwhelmed with the louder children, the ones who know what the paste pot was for, who had heard of Jesus, even, who would say what they wanted, and loud enough to get it. I would like for you to come there, whisper the things I needed to know -- how to catch a pop fly, ways to cheat in math, how not to be the little apple, the girl whose hand is always held in the sweaty, stronger hands of other children. Pulled along.
I'm just thinking this, that quickly I might run my hands inside your shirt at the collar, too fast for you to remember to say "no" before you could only say yes. Quickly enough, my palms flat and warm, and then we are there, and maybe also I could practice my unbuttoning, my unzipping, and my untying.
Because I think, honestly, that there is room for a happy ending here. I really do.