Post by LynnDoiron on Jun 11, 2008 20:25:44 GMT -5
After her seventieth year and cake,
candles blown, guests gone, she begins
to cut gift bags into paper dolls & glues
curly ribbons where vaginas should be.
On one doll they’re pink, on another green,
and she sews two red buttons with pink
floss right through the paper, right where
nipples occur on slim, real girls.
A crayon tattoos “12” on a flowered leg
near where the pink ribbon swirls,
“16” near the green; she cuts out
the women of twenties she was,
then thirties
and on.
Her years are ready to dress:
pinafores of “5” pasted from newsprint;
trashbags shaped in broad-brimmed
straws for forty’s widow; saved
sticks from suckers and ice creams
make the brace her fifty’s back wore,
still wears a decade of dolls down the line.
Needles pierce every joint, every hemstitch
of cloth through her sixtieth decade of play.
Afterwards she floats the paper girls in a tub
of bubbles -- the weight of wet vaginas sinks
every one. Her scissors are sharp, supplies
endless
as years.
She dresses, removes, drowns --
even as she moves them through,
swings them through, each motion and notion
of puppeteer-end-maker, candle-snuffing
year-breaker, who draws outside cut lines,
cuts inside old scores. (How’s that
for staying alive?)
[original]
After her seventieth year and cake,
icing on her chin and the denim coat
she won’t give up,
guests gone,
red sauce from a meatloaf
highlighting a white cotton
tee with a logo of The Lake, she begins
to cut gift bags into paper dolls
& glues curly ribbons
where vaginas should be.
On one doll they’re pink,
on another green,
and she sews two red buttons with pink floss right through
the paper, right where
nipples occur
on slim, real girls.
A sharp crayon tattoos “12”
on a flowered leg near where the pink ribbon curls,
“16” near the green; she cuts
out the women of twenties she was,
then thirties
and on.
Her years are each ready to dress:
pinafores of “5” pasted from newsprint;
trashbags shaped in broad-brimmed straws
for forty’s widow; saved
sticks from suckers and ice creams
make the brace
her fifty’s back wore,
still wears
a decade of dolls
down the line. Needles
pierce every
joint and hemstitch of cloth through her sixtieth
decade of play.
After, she floats
the paper girls in a tub of bubbles; weight of wet
vaginas sinks every one.
Her scissors are sharp, supplies
endless
as years.
She dresses, removes, drowns --
even as she moves them through,
swings them through,
each motion and notion
of puppeteer-end-maker,
candle-snuffing-year-breaker
who
draws outside cut lines,
cuts inside old scores.
(How’s that for staying alive?)
candles blown, guests gone, she begins
to cut gift bags into paper dolls & glues
curly ribbons where vaginas should be.
On one doll they’re pink, on another green,
and she sews two red buttons with pink
floss right through the paper, right where
nipples occur on slim, real girls.
A crayon tattoos “12” on a flowered leg
near where the pink ribbon swirls,
“16” near the green; she cuts out
the women of twenties she was,
then thirties
and on.
Her years are ready to dress:
pinafores of “5” pasted from newsprint;
trashbags shaped in broad-brimmed
straws for forty’s widow; saved
sticks from suckers and ice creams
make the brace her fifty’s back wore,
still wears a decade of dolls down the line.
Needles pierce every joint, every hemstitch
of cloth through her sixtieth decade of play.
Afterwards she floats the paper girls in a tub
of bubbles -- the weight of wet vaginas sinks
every one. Her scissors are sharp, supplies
endless
as years.
She dresses, removes, drowns --
even as she moves them through,
swings them through, each motion and notion
of puppeteer-end-maker, candle-snuffing
year-breaker, who draws outside cut lines,
cuts inside old scores. (How’s that
for staying alive?)
[original]
After her seventieth year and cake,
icing on her chin and the denim coat
she won’t give up,
guests gone,
red sauce from a meatloaf
highlighting a white cotton
tee with a logo of The Lake, she begins
to cut gift bags into paper dolls
& glues curly ribbons
where vaginas should be.
On one doll they’re pink,
on another green,
and she sews two red buttons with pink floss right through
the paper, right where
nipples occur
on slim, real girls.
A sharp crayon tattoos “12”
on a flowered leg near where the pink ribbon curls,
“16” near the green; she cuts
out the women of twenties she was,
then thirties
and on.
Her years are each ready to dress:
pinafores of “5” pasted from newsprint;
trashbags shaped in broad-brimmed straws
for forty’s widow; saved
sticks from suckers and ice creams
make the brace
her fifty’s back wore,
still wears
a decade of dolls
down the line. Needles
pierce every
joint and hemstitch of cloth through her sixtieth
decade of play.
After, she floats
the paper girls in a tub of bubbles; weight of wet
vaginas sinks every one.
Her scissors are sharp, supplies
endless
as years.
She dresses, removes, drowns --
even as she moves them through,
swings them through,
each motion and notion
of puppeteer-end-maker,
candle-snuffing-year-breaker
who
draws outside cut lines,
cuts inside old scores.
(How’s that for staying alive?)
