|
In a house
full
of women, all the angles
are hard, all the angels
have
flown. Bodies
hum to the same
chord, taut and precise
as
guitar string.
The oldest plays
hide and seek, the
rattle
of her bones gives
her away, the body
translucent
as moth
wings or onion skin.
She glows in the dark--
now
you see her,
now you don't.
The mother stands
in
front of the mirror,
hand on her hip,
her slip, her
skin,
the color of vanilla.
A shadow passes
her eyes,
the round
of her lips. She appraises
her legs, the stretch
of her neck. This,
is the lesson
she meant to
instill,
this is the curse.
The youngest
cultivates
perfection like a garden,
nails clean and
pink,
the lines of her body
strait as god,
hipbones
hollowing like a drum.
She delights in
lost
things-- her nails
crumble like the icing
of a
cake, the pull
of the brush against
her scalp, the grey
of
her skin in bathwater.
She wants to scrub
herself, pink
and white,
red to the bone,
to wear herself down
to the
inside--
that pure bright light.
In a house full of
women,
all the angels are hard.
|
