2/1/2017 3 Comments Two Poems by Hillary Leftwichthe doll i was men didn’t wait for me to grow into my mosquito bites they would rather taste the sting than the sweetness of ripened fruit women glare across a dim room where daddy played husband to a woman no one knew men didn’t wait for my brother to leave Mano-a-mano eyes locked hands roughed by concrete caressing my hair as i caressed my doll’s hair she’s so pretty am i pretty enough? men all said so all i knew back then was a Ken doll with a mound a Barbie with painted-on panties unlike my panties sweet and pink as the wild strawberries out back of our yard burying myself under a pile of guest coats while Frosty the Snowman played on the record player the adults drank whore’s red punch while the women craned their necks as fancy as swans in a jewelry story window the pounding of a death drum as hands unearthed me while Christmas lights smeared like frosting on a cookie big hands undressing me the doll i was the woman I will never be The Wives The wives don’t give a shit about your degrees the fake Klimt and Van Gogh on your walls They live in Victorian homes after marrying the guy who was sexy nerdish back in the 90’s, makes 100k a year now, and somehow seems much more attractive. The wives size you up like they regard themselves in full-length mirrors in the dressing rooms of Macy’s or Nordstrom’s. You don’t fit. You use their bathroom and open the medicine chest and the cupboard under the sink, notice the expensive tampons and the boutique makeup in pretty cases. You eat the sliced cheese spread out on the cutting block and decline the prosciutto, raising eyebrows. The wives’ husbands’ share a look, the same look you got from your daddy’s friends when you were 12. Your girlfriends back in your home town all empathize with you. But you don’t tell them when the wives are away on vacations, their husbands come to visit you. They bring you their wife’s dresses to try on before they fuck you on the mattress you salvaged from the alley behind your apartment. They tear the fabric off your body, not caring how much it costs. They tell you it fits you just like a glove. Bio: Hillary Leftwich resides in Denver with her son. She is co-host for At the Inkwell, a NYC based reading series and organizes/hosts other reading/fundraiser events around Denver. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Creative Coping Mechanism (CCM) “A Shadow Map” Anthology, Hobart, Matter Press, Smokelong Quarterly’s “Why Flash Fiction?” Series, The Review Review and others.
3 Comments
Missy
2/1/2017 03:15:53 pm
Truly amazing.
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Jayne Martin
2/1/2017 04:23:23 pm
Powerful, courageous, and heartbreaking.
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