.................................
We were intertwined
.................................

coming loose, talking about female
spoons: the female spoon and female
as spoon. She came in through
the bathroom window. Protected
by my face, Mom said. Convex side up
And those perky breasts, baby
with pricks all over town
waiting for a glimpse of
me on their ceiling mirror.

I remember

Women.

I remember the funhouse
mirrors concaving the image
of another on whatever other.
How they stood out in a crowd.
The ticket-taker, staring at their asses,
fumbling his crotch, hard on them,
breathing out
I'm so ghastly. I look retarded.
Thievin' "the band geek's face"
for a funhouse night.
How they were such a Single
they all wore the same
shoe size and bra cup.

The ugly muscles of my face pimping
positions position. Salivating pricks.
I got my own damn tit size.

I started with my face.
The balls dropping from the coastal virginity of my ear.
The crescents of the zygomatic, the gully under the eye.
The sloping bone to the pubescent curl of the eyebrow.
The iris. The whispering of paisley nostril,
the crushed star of black, the flume.
The swollen gash skying a pivoted chin.
I have demarcated my face in cigarette burns.
Ghastly this exaggeration. Amplification.
Performing skin over calcified bone.

Mom and I were
talking about female spoons
and the female spoon and female
as spoon. She came in through
the bathroom window. Protected
by my face. Concave side red
reflecting the faces aghast more aghast
in the reflection. A fun house mirror.

Narcissus was god-like, a man.

I pour wine in the cupped burns.
I am up here, surface. Capturing
the lightness of blisters my liquid escaping.
The red rotundity of nipples
reading my face. Piss on you.

My face. Face. Gone theivin'
to get my face back.
Stealin' back the exhale,
slicing the elastic rubber around
my tiny ribcage, the ribcage
in tiny circular vowels
of pleasant surprise. Ooooo Dahlin',
for li'l ol' me? My face.
Blocked. IIIIIII

Enough stroke marks.
Count to ten.
Backward. Relax.

Shiny red concave mirrors.
Shiny red concave mirrors.
Shiny red concave mirrors.

I appear so much larger to myself,
so much less fragile.

I can breathe out
without splintering within.

Stand facing the stove. Spit.

They'll have to listen to what I'm saying.

I feel much saner than I remember,
like an open boat.

It should be possible to lift something
in these words.

.................................
Julie Becker
.................................

 
Copyright © Julie Becker
June 1998

...a poem in this room by Karla Rogers...
Story of Ms. Hair
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