THIS IS THE SYNTAX CALLED BETTIE PAGE
Even as a child, I learned
the importance of beauty, every
spring, fall—that knowledge
a privilege. I remember
when I was seven, my father
told me “you radiate penstemon light—a wild
pink snapdragon perpetually posed
as bee-swelled kiss.” Those words
like pollen-dust, a stamen-sweet prize. Ecstatic—
a lace collar lit my face, my black hair
softly clasped in gold barrettes. The perfect
little girl—innocent, irresistible,
unapproachable. The looks. The whispers.
I pretended those stairs led to a bedroom
of white-curtained windows.
I was shy,
wanted to dance, graceful
ballerina, straight and sleek, to starve myself.
That summer I turned 14, I stalled
on the corner before I went in, chewing four
Dubble Bubbles, the start of a roller-coaster year.
An angel napped under the umbrella-sunset, checking out
the topless women of Boca Raton; misspelled sister-notes:
He’s so cute I can barely stand—it makes me hunger.
Everyone kept me in dark, red-lit rooms
from beginning to end. I spent half the time thinking—
It’s my birthday! Blow out the candles. Nothing has
changed—rose-dolloped cake, dime-store presents, silver confetti,
fever. I want to know what that future
may not hold.
It’s a shame you don’t have a donate button!
I’d most certainly donate to this excellent blog! I suppose for now i’ll settle for bookmarking and
adding your RSS feed to my Google account. I look forward
to brand new updates and will share this site with my Facebook group.
Talk soon!