Falling Apart at the Seams
I turn my head to the right, feel stiff like Barbie, feet glued,
arms controlled by a puppeteer, standing in queue.
My hair sticks out from my head, tinder to burn. I need
to tear out my seams, flatten the pattern, start again
Mom taught me to rip fabric, zip it up
on her electrified ‘25 Singer.
Don’t think you’ll be a pinup model, better learn to cook and sew or you’ll never stand on your own two feet
.
I need a shock, like Zelda. Insane or only a taste
for crinoline, a desire for ballet?
Doomed to an asylum by F.Scott,she died in a blaze.
The horror sends me to the floor
lift my legs, stretch, tighten my gut, demand
my mother pin me to blue peau de soie.
Try it on, she says. I can’t bend my arms, a dept. store
dummy in motion. Shoppers scream, “Zombie.”
Mom shouts orders: Mind the seams
too thin, too commercial, Do the plaids line up?
Don’t think you’ll be a pinup model, better learn to cook and sew or you’ll never stand on your own two feet
At 5 I chose my swing in the park, far away from muddy boys.
Pumped my feet, flew.
Mom, intent on mending Dad’s socks didn’t watch.
I climbed up the metal slide, Look mom, no hands.
I swam like Kool-Aid, to the ground,
She did not look up. I did not look back
.
Skipped away from Queens on my own two feet, body draped in peau de soie
After Seeing Pipilotti Rist’s Video “Selfless in the Bath of Lava: A Journey”
A goddess to sacrifice, I float in my bath, face smooth,
pink, baby’s skin. My breasts dangle beyond the screen.
Viewers can touch, squeeze, c’mon sweeties fulfill your desire.
Freed from my lava bath, my limbs move every which, witch way.
IPat my magic crown, a silver urchin, the seed for my impossible dream.
Jump into the dead end street, hug The Walking Stick bush where robins sparrows, chickadees gather to tweet. I wave goodbye; hold tight to a bouquet of Queen Anne’s lace. Dance with children up hill toward the full moon. We mime Beyonce’s lyrics– everything I wanted, more than I thought, improvise our own dance steps, while we race to embrace the climb. Fire at our backs, adrenalin pushes us on to free everyone from, Covid-19. Wearing masks printed with kids scribbles, we dance toward the full moon. I twist my urchin crown toward caves, move my legs every which way. Scientists, protestors, young, and old greet us with virtual hugs. all standing six feet apart. No one sings in a crowd this big, but do believe
someday we shall…
Mare Leonard lives and works in the Hudson Valley, where she is an Associate of the Institute for Writing and Thinking and the MAT programs at Bard College. She has published four chapbooks of poetry and a new one, The Dark Inside My Hooded Coat, is available at Finishing Line Press. One of her poems, published in A Pickled Body, was recently nominated for a Pushcart.
