Pretty

Pretty

1
I dreamed
of carving knives
sharp Thanksgiving blades
still covered in turkey grease
and hands
somehow familiar
stroked the blades
ground them against a stone
then seized my wrists
and made me promise
from now on to be good.
Before I could scream
or agree
the blade buried
in my armpit
and in one quick stroke
the bottom half of my arm
fell to the floor with a wet thud.
Then went the second
methodically
the pieces of me
fell like a sick rain
until some doctor came
to help me grow skin again.
In another
a bottle beckoned
and I swallowed
one after another
until I distended
and ruptured
or I was jailed
without food
and my penance
a never ending run.
They were my hands
I later realized
and these were
fantasies
not nightmares.

2
I used to think that if
I got close enough to a friend
and brave enough
to stretch out my hand
a perfect copy of my mother’s fingers
and touch her, just lightly on the arm
she’d inwardly cringe
or worse
look at it like it was a roach
she wanted to slap away
and afterwards when I’m gone
scrub the spot raw
and pray my hands would never
search for her again.

3
I have a pretty face.
That’s what they say
when they want to assure me
and give me confidence
without having to believe
someone like me
could ever be beautiful.
“You have such a pretty face.”
Such a deadly phrase
deciphered it means
nothing else on you is acceptable.
“Those lips”
if it weren’t for the rest of you
“better yet those cheeks and eyes”
you’d be perfect.
Maybe I could live with that
if you could look me in the face
when you said it.

4
I am convinced
I live in the wrong country.
No matter how great
or how scandalous it has become
I could have forgiven anything
save this
America the beautiful
tell me again
how pretty is my face?