I no longer desire
to make myself pink. To be
foiled and formed, or pressed
between hands and lycra-
silver wrappings. I wed
myself to small yellow flowers.
A good wife with white buttons,
tending soft favors in well-
managed smiles. The guest of honor
reaches, grapples with a firm hand.
She smiles. More Pink.
A less-worn portrait of her mother
exchanging pleasantries for currency,
beaming as she reaches further.
Everything reaches further here
where the city stretches out. Couches,
feet up, on well-planed fields between
the rows and cul de sacs of prosperity.
Homes, in affluent line, glimmer
with pretense on catwalk avenues where
they shine. Dressed to impress.
Like contestants in post-
modern pagaents. Rippling
spired ribbons
SNAP
in the wind.
Unfurl their majesty.
The majesty of waste. Old women
pass beneath white tents as the crisp
and blackened boar is brought to rest.
Coaled eyes spill grease.
They weep
and clap with white-papered hands. Smack
flamingo-stained lips. Gossip and bid,
laying rights to the claim on the head.
I pinch my coal-rimmed eyes
passing Saturday among Aztecs,
longing out, beyond the reach. Out
beyond the vines.
Copyright Haze McElhenny 2000
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