Miss America
. . . there
is no separateness between her body
and that of her abuser . . .
|
|
Your face, whole
and smiling |
 |
| Blazed and full
of Beam. Knotting hate between your thighs. Rope burned on your bed he slaps and fastens you to him again. |
 |
| You've heard
sobs on tv and seen girls drop optional tears. Tiara-stricken and screaming they laugh in surgeon's award-winning skin. |
 |
| They have plans
for the nation. Plans for themselves. Plans as weighty as tans. Solutions drip from lacquered lips. Honey on apple meat teeth. |
 |
| You've tried
repeating their amber advice and gagged on the sugar cured sounds. |
 |
| In August you
make your own bladed answers. Chop the throbbing copper line. Sever every needy plug in the house of brutal lamps. Tattered screens applaud your talent in the thick and thoughtless air. |
 |
| Twelve-gauge
weight insistent, unsparing oils your pink palate with its thrusting bore. |
 |
Your forceful answer
to all of your questions
splits fruited
teeth.
|
Breaks your
red Takes off your
|
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--Liz Linton |