Authors: Heppermann,Christine
O
ften since the ball, when the house is draped
in sleep, I put on my robe and slippers, shuffle
past the wardrobe crammed with slack gowns,
past the door to the empty attic,
down to the kitchen, where the mice linger
just long enough to decide I am still not the one
they love. No one cares if I finish off the whole leg
of lamb, the last of the pumpkin pie.
And if I sit there dreaming until morning,
the new girl Mama hired will come in
to ask if I want tea, her soot-stained face
a perfect mask of concern.
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I
n my fantasy he is never a prince, vanilla pale
and trim, but a swarthy frog, all bulging muscle,
asking nothing more
than to eat from my plate
and sleep pooled together on my bed,
where now, alone, I ripple the sheets,
slide my fingers down
into the cool water and imagine
him there, retrieving my golden ball
again and again and again.
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G.I. Joe comes with a sword and Kung Fu Grip.
When Spider-Man shoots his webs, villains, beware!
Pony Princess Cadance has a brush, a pretty mane to style and flip.
No saddle? No bridle? For $16.99? What a gyp.
“Today's my wedding day!” squeals Cadance. Spidey, beware!
G.I. Joe comes with a sword and Kung Fu Grip;
he loves to hold a brush, style his friends' beards with fancy clips.
In his hooded spandex tux (sold separately), the groom looks so debonair.
Pony Princess Cadance has a brush, a pretty mane to style and flip,
and if she could pretty-please borrow Joe's sword, she could rip
down all those ugly webs in hubby's den, give the space some sparkle flair.
G.I. Joe comes with a sword and Kung Fu Grip,
which he pawns to open his salonâAction Hero Curl 'N' Clip.
Dreaming of villains, Spidey wakes up web-tied to his chair!
Pony Princess Cadance has a brush, a pretty mane to style and flip
and a Spider-Cycle she rides away at a fast clip.
Pony Princess Cadance comes with a sword and Kung Fu Grip.
G.I. Joe has a brush, pretty manes to style and flip.
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H
ow foolish I was to believe that
crooning my name from below meant something
more than pressing an elevator button.
They all want to feel themselves rising
higher. They all want the girl in the tower
to pour herself into their hands.
Who's to say that, given a chance
at lower altitude, I would be different
from the rest?
Today will be the day I refuse
to lift my head from this damp pillow,
far away from the comb and the brush and the pleading
bodies always luring me down.
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T
here was already enough dark magic
at those slumber parties. Still we played
the game:
You are riding the bus
or
You are crossing the street
or
You are walking through the park,
and then
the brakes failed,
the lightning struck,
Your killer drags you down into the leaves. . . .
My friends chanted and slipped
a few fingers under my corpse.
If the spell worked, my soul was gone;
I was light as a feather, stiff as a board,
drifting high above their heads.
If not, they laughed and dropped me.
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T
he dress code says
we must cover ourselves
in
ample pants,
skirts that reach well below
our lascivious knees,
polos buttoned over
the rim of the canyon,
a glimpse of which can send a boy
plunging to such depths
he may never climb back up
to algebra.
We
say
that if a hiker strays
off the path, trips, and
winds up crippled,
is it really
the canyon's fault?
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