Tonight's Poet Corner: ...Stays Here
...Stays Here
by Belinda Roddie
The dress that doesn't belong to you
now has an accessory it didn't come with:
Impermanent, easy to clean, but at this
moment, it shines with a crimson sheen
around the collar, which doesn't exactly
complement the color of the skirt or bodice.
That's some heavy lipstick, my friend. Did
you buy that by the box, and now you're literally
just running your mouth across some poor
dame's neck? Wait until Daddy finds out:
wait until the snarling mouth of his Glock
G19 gets a chance to speak up about it,
too. And Mama will fulfill the stereotype
and cry and cry and cry until she's shriveled
up like a corn husk in the summer blaze.
The dress that doesn't belong to you
sure looks good on my sister, doesn't it?
The way the sleeves accentuate the shoulders,
punctuated by the muscle gained by weight
training in college. The bristle of the hem
against ankles that like to bend the wrong way
when she walks too fast to meet you at the bus
stop. How many times have I seen her steal
away into the bathroom after her retail shift,
wiping her mouth with tissue after tissue? And
guess what? They all turn out the same hue.
The same fucking red. I don't judge the sentiment
here - girl's always had a hard time being loved.
But maybe I won't have to spill to the trigger happy
parental units if you'd only just try to be a little more
subtle. Flesh tones work. Light pinks, even.
The dress that doesn't belong to you - I bought
it for her, when she was itching to fill the vacuum
of her body with something more substantial.
I watched her in the fitting room as she spun like
a goddamn ballerina. God, it made me want to dance,
too. She hadn't been that happy in years. Somehow, her
smile hasn't faded. Maybe you keep it going. Fine.
Just don't smudge too much wax on that dress, okay?
by Belinda Roddie
The dress that doesn't belong to you
now has an accessory it didn't come with:
Impermanent, easy to clean, but at this
moment, it shines with a crimson sheen
around the collar, which doesn't exactly
complement the color of the skirt or bodice.
That's some heavy lipstick, my friend. Did
you buy that by the box, and now you're literally
just running your mouth across some poor
dame's neck? Wait until Daddy finds out:
wait until the snarling mouth of his Glock
G19 gets a chance to speak up about it,
too. And Mama will fulfill the stereotype
and cry and cry and cry until she's shriveled
up like a corn husk in the summer blaze.
The dress that doesn't belong to you
sure looks good on my sister, doesn't it?
The way the sleeves accentuate the shoulders,
punctuated by the muscle gained by weight
training in college. The bristle of the hem
against ankles that like to bend the wrong way
when she walks too fast to meet you at the bus
stop. How many times have I seen her steal
away into the bathroom after her retail shift,
wiping her mouth with tissue after tissue? And
guess what? They all turn out the same hue.
The same fucking red. I don't judge the sentiment
here - girl's always had a hard time being loved.
But maybe I won't have to spill to the trigger happy
parental units if you'd only just try to be a little more
subtle. Flesh tones work. Light pinks, even.
The dress that doesn't belong to you - I bought
it for her, when she was itching to fill the vacuum
of her body with something more substantial.
I watched her in the fitting room as she spun like
a goddamn ballerina. God, it made me want to dance,
too. She hadn't been that happy in years. Somehow, her
smile hasn't faded. Maybe you keep it going. Fine.
Just don't smudge too much wax on that dress, okay?
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