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by Jennifer Wong
I've seen you make those
Plenty of times:
Tights, lingerie, lumps of cotton.
Scissors and strings.
For days you'd sit
Cold on the newspapered floor,
Fervently twisting them into shape,
Wringing beauty
Out of a lack of proportion.
Another version you had them
Splashed with paint or
Stapled with sequins,
Left to die in a washing machine.
A loving act. Bruised. Domestic.
So many by now and you show
No signs of stopping.
Crammed inside your dark leather trunk under bed
They live and hiss and forget
Their mother.
Innocent coils of sausages that
Dangle your name.
Your parents would never admire
Those legs you made.
They have such faith you are
On your way to Christie's, if not,
At least a very decent gallery.
What's there to be afraid of?
Just a bag of bad dreams
And a specimen of life. |