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Forgive me for I
have shoplifted cheap eye shadow,
bronze hair gel, a tube of Bazooka bubble gum;
forgive me for lifting the neighbor’s skirt
when she fiddled with the garden hose,
for catching a glimpse of her cauliflower cheeks
and running home to snitch she didn’t wear undies;
forgive me for turning my Cabbage Patch, Lina Carmela,
into a junkie, puncturing her peachy skin
with a used needle and injecting a stream of apple juice
until quarter sized bruises covered her arms;
forgive me for shaking the birdcage until my canary
plummeted from its perch and I plucked a tail feather;
for laughing while my father choked on a string
of mozzarella, puncturing his bicycle tire
with a safety pin, setting the avocado carpet on fire
because I hated everything green; forgive me
for pouring salt on the seasoned steaks
when my mother wasn’t looking; for modeling
her housecoat and prancing into the family room,
flashing the kernels of my nipples unashamed
as my grandparents and godfather chatted;
for yanking mother’s pearl necklace with the same careless
motion I used when detaching Legos; for snooping
in a wine box where she stored miscellaneous photos;
finding the only portrait taken in her twenties
in San Luis, ripping it in half without guilt;
forgive my jealous destruction of that shot,
of my mother’s coral lips, her young Liz Taylor
hairdo, her Snow White complexion;
forgive me for playing the wicked stepmother.
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Because her left hip is
higher
than the right, she measures the pool
water’s pH every day. Because
her right breast is larger than the left,
she is skeptical of new & improved
laundry detergent, of buy-one-
get-one-free advertisements.
She puckers, she contours, she
slathers her kisser with Pink
Panther lipstick before slipping
under plaid quilts because
there’s a macaroni-shaped scar
on her lip. And because her lips continue
to move after she finishes speaking,
she reads the Bible, wears red flannel,
says she’s the first female to speak
a silent tongue. The mystery
in her life ponders why she pours
ketchup across the periphery
of her burger before every bite, why
she refuses to eat scrambled eggs
unless she sprinkles a dash
of salt for each of pepper.
And because her left eye twitches
when she eats, she pitches her fork
into a piece of chocolate cream
pie and pops it in her mouth
for the cast of Unsolved Mysteries,
for The National Enquirer,
for The Guinness Book of World Records
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I covered it with clear
contact paper,
wrote my name in caps across the foredge in black marker.
The bloated book rested on my desk like a rainbow trout.
Mrs. Lund poised on the stool, her bangs and bob stiff
like a man in a toupee, face primed with a thick coat
of concealer. She hinted the secret at the heart of the text--
I spotted it in her eyes whenever she laughed,
flung her arms like tentacles, crossed her legs,
private insanity hidden inside her wisteria wool
skirt, tucked out of sight like Thornfield’s third floor
tenant, Linda Blair’s precursor, the basket case languishing in bed.
I read in bed, on the bamboo love seat, beneath the shade
of my father’s banana trees. I scarfed the pages like pork rinds,
yuca chips, crackers slathered with guava jelly.
I binged constantly, sunk my canines into text
while Blur’s Boys and Girls wailed in the background like Bertha on
speed.
I carried it for weeks inside the outer pocket of my Eastpack
like Tic Tacs, a passport, a compact I’d flip open
during lunch, in-between class, before soccer practice--the Bantam
paperback lodged between Agnes Grey and Wuthering Heights
at Adolph’s bookstore, its spine red-orange like papaya pulp.
I plucked it from the shelf and stared at the cover--
the forlorn wedding dress yearning for Jane’s scapula,
her small breasts, the warmth of her hips when she walks
across the bedroom and steps into wedding slippers,
then into absence, the foot’s descent consuming as quicksand,
the subtle curve of her arch sheathed by glass
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If I could, I’d save you.
Flies beneath your bed hiss Bertha, Antoinette,
Bertha--though you plug your
ears
with lima beans, syllables seep
in like dust pushing past closed shutters,
like locoweed creeping across the garden wall,
the mute battlements. Better to bust out of your cell,
to let the oversized roach motel burn
before your so-called-husband stuffs you
in a body bag, seals you like a cracker in a Ziploc.
I’d set you up in a beach side condo
stocked with your favorite dahlias:
Arabian Nights, Black Satins, Burma Gems.
I’d hire a good massage therapist, and enroll
you in yoga classes. I’d take you to a spa,
treat you to a mud bath, restore those charcoal
stained feet to their original hue,
have a stylist trim that cavewoman hair.
You’d take up kickboxing and swimming.
You’d see a shrink who specializes in pyromania,
who’d prescribe an antidepressant cocktail
for those unpredictable mood swings and panic attacks.
After shopping for a new wardrobe, a red dress
and matching slingbacks, we’d climb the statue of Liberty,
we’d toss your straight jacket into the ocean,
and along with it each vestige of sadness
that has tinged your bloodshot eyes.
I’d make you forget Edward.
I’d cradle your face in my hands and I’d kiss you,
a hypnotic lip-lock extinguishing each bad memory,
obliterating suffering from your lexicon.
Bertha, if I could, I’d save you.
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I was walking toward the
bus stop
when a guy whizzed by like a bike messenger.
I can’t tell you what he looked like
or what he wore, only that the scent
of his cologne lingered as if saying hello--
and that he smelled like you, like the blue flask
of Nautica you kept in your glove
compartment, like my purple turtleneck
on nights I sank into bed carrying
your scent the way little girls
carry dolls to their beds, the way men
carry loose change in their pockets
all day, without realizing.
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