Tag

Tag

His hand flatters my hip.

I buried Barbie beneath a brick in soft soil.

It is true I came close to having my boobs done.

I couldn’t determine if it was his wish

or mine to reject my A cup for a double D.

One blue dress I almost bought begged

for breasts the way a mitten will fingers.

It’s all a racket anyway.

We come to this world seeking fish

don’t we? A guppy maybe

something easy to swallow.

I didn’t realize that until my twenties

when my brain bent in a hurricane.

I couldn’t find a word that smoked

and didn’t like the way cats caught a cool breeze

without entertaining even the idea of storms, much less

a storm itself.

I have hidden behind padded bras

but now come forth, exposed,

wanting what it is I have in my life—

telling you the postage on the envelope is enough

to send a word to the new country.

I welcome your tag with your newfound clarity.

The hand of my wrathful deity extends itself

clear as the alabaster of mud-sucking lotuses.