Born with hate from another life,
her cheeks were full
with unused smiles.

The back of her eyes saw
the birth of serpents,
the sounds of coronation bells ringing
too far away.

Her inheritance consisted of an addictive personality
and a single long cigarette holder.
Her dowry carved out of old barn boards
and wrapped in Dior nightgowns.
Her education shadowed by rich burgundies
and the genesis of nuclear warfare.

And suddenly
it was all demitasse cups
and finishing schools:

but she’s all Irish perfume and knee-socks,
Cable-knit sweaters kissing her thighs.

Instructing herself
in the ways of steaming champagne flutes
teetering on the porcelain of unstable bathtubs.

They do not teach in schools
of the dangerous beauty of your own skin
peeking out from mischievously placed clouds of bubbles;

nor do they warn you
of the extremity found in
pouring ice cold water
into your scalding bath.

“Tell me, how much longer 
can I touch myself 
and listen to The Smiths?”


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s