Le Petite Plaisirs
a ribbon of blue smoke
lingers over a Billy Holiday song
my black kitten heels, your bell laugh, our cappuccinos
living life like a piece of art, right?
am I the woman in the red dress?
are you the man in the suit? we could be that dancing couple
the couple on the beach in that Vettriano painting
every day should be blessed with a solid line of literature
a pretty painting, a moving song, an inspiring work of art
I read that somewhere once, but sometimes there is only dry toast
cold fried rice stuck to the carton
and all the chocolates in the box are orange flavored
the paintings are water-colored-palms-trees-on-a-beach
the poets are all dirty old men
and the colors on my palette turn to gray like the clouds outside
you warm up the rice and put on a French song
tell me to boil the kettle and curl into bed
tomorrow is another day, tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Melt Call It Pretty
Melt Call It Pretty
With dark brown hair
that cannot change color even with the help of color
the added percentage to the majority of women
Tan like the rest but not like the ones who lie in beds
and burn, though not long ago, it was that pearl white
the pale blush blooming, that men call pretty
Not small not tall but just enough to see over the bar
just enough to walk like a woman in heels
small enough to shy like a child, like a girl
With no particular sound
but sometimes like a Brit when the feeling comes
or with a lilt like a hick because that’s the way we talk
down here, on the handle of America, the lower you go
the higher you are, until you’re in Mexico
No one ever goes there except on vacation
strutting slim bodies and swollen bellies in bikinis
still babies, someone’s baby
someone’s little girl
My mother told me when I was little
that I was a melting pot, a beautiful mix of things
and my sister said I was a coconut
brown on the outside and white on the inside
Caucasian, Asian, African American
pretty names in their places with a box next to each
I am the check
on those slips and forms
that sit, quiet and bored in a manila folder
I am the name printed across it
I am, Other
With dark brown hair
that cannot change color even with the help of color
the added percentage to the majority of women
Tan like the rest but not like the ones who lie in beds
and burn, though not long ago, it was that pearl white
the pale blush blooming, that men call pretty
Not small not tall but just enough to see over the bar
just enough to walk like a woman in heels
small enough to shy like a child, like a girl
With no particular sound
but sometimes like a Brit when the feeling comes
or with a lilt like a hick because that’s the way we talk
down here, on the handle of America, the lower you go
the higher you are, until you’re in Mexico
No one ever goes there except on vacation
strutting slim bodies and swollen bellies in bikinis
still babies, someone’s baby
someone’s little girl
My mother told me when I was little
that I was a melting pot, a beautiful mix of things
and my sister said I was a coconut
brown on the outside and white on the inside
Caucasian, Asian, African American
pretty names in their places with a box next to each
I am the check
on those slips and forms
that sit, quiet and bored in a manila folder
I am the name printed across it
I am, Other
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