I have my father’s feet
they are ugly I think
manly, wildebeest, sinew and bone
elongated toe as if saying
I am to be placed
deformed and bunion-esque
in shoes that will never fit
much like life, much like life
…
my father was considered a handsome man
many years women worked themselves into a hot
lather over his ways
perhaps it was a study in contrast
most men his age had already
mortal guts overhanging and could not
string a good sentence together
my father was verbose just as he was
shy and his hair was thick and hung
just so across his scarred brow
it seemed to galvanize the heterosexual piper call
women wanted or maybe they simply
didn’t want to have nothing and he
was nimble with his word play
indeed they forgave him for being
a redhead and if you think that is cruel
you’ve never known one or been one
they are the vilified among our kind
for their pallor and their color
an exotic relegated to rotten
less so in America
there is perhaps still
progression
yet my father, despite his flaming stamp
seemed to cut through the chaff
always though directed toward brunette, for a
blonde would be scared of the redhead
gene
and it is true they have begun to turn away
russet colored men from sperm banks
so my father had a chip on his shoulder
for being red when his father was
dark and swarthy
how then the man who is neither?
…
I inherited the pallor but not the color
nor the freckles I have some
of my mother in me though
she would say not
now I see it more and more
as she is less and less
snipping me out like
a bad paper doll who has
transgressed
I miss her even in preparation
for our dissolution
we are quite similar
and just as different
but when I see her eyes in
the mirror I ask
wasn’t I worth trying for?
It is futile to query
the reasons for disinterest
when studying psychology I learned
as only children never understand
the myriad ways we misinterpret
ten people in a room who all see
a different thing
perception then, is a liar and a clown
we should stick to loyalty
but that has fallen out of vogue
…
I thought being pale I would
age better than my contemporaries
who tanned themselves into oblivion
how I envied their brown
it’s enough to drive you crazy
wanting what you are never
but I am ageing faster
maybe it’s the mercury in my blood
or the grief I don’t seem to be able
to set aside
perhaps I have forgotten what it is like
to be cherished or how to dream
I do not know
but I dyed my hair when the grey came
taunting with its white brush as if to say
here you go, have a sprinkling
you’ve earned it
now my body begins the fiendish process
of cutting off
its estrogen and skin
starts to dull and lose its shine
almost enough to wish for
the discontented pale girl once
…
lucky I have no lover to
impress
for there is nothing
to brag in my loss of elastic
and sad dumpy thighs
they say you
do not need to have children
to sag
and I can attest
to no live birth
and much gravity
what was once popular in youth
the cleavage
the early fruit
becomes an enemy to
the middle-aged
am I that already? I seem
still to feel like the dancer on stage
earning her moves
taking love between her chest bone
squeezing it of juice
I visited my old studio when I went ‘home’
saw young girls with
long necks and flat chests
I wanted to be them
and also I did not
for it would be tiring to
start over again
with all the expectations and all the demands
…
there is something
still and good about
less
but I may have taken it to an extreme
with the quiet of my life
the emptiness of my eyes
if you see me
forgetful and slow
and then to dance
in a fleeting moment
you will understand
it is not easy to accept change
when you have not yet had your time
but forgive me my ugly feet
and look into my eyes
that is where I can still be found
searching for you
among the debris
and the loose ribbons
we kept so perfect
pinned tightly
on display
TheFeatheredSleep 