Poisoned Apples (4 page)

S
he used to be a house of bricks,

point guard on the JV team, walling out

defenders who could only huff and puff

and watch the layups roll in.

She traded for a house of sticks,

kindling in Converse high-tops and a red Adidas tent.

At lunch she swirled a teeny spoon in yogurt

that never touched her lips and said

she'd decided to quit chasing a stupid ball.

Now she's building herself out of straw

as light as the needle swimming in her bathroom scale.

The smaller the number, the closer to gold,

the tighter her face, afire with the zeal of a wolf

who has one house left to destroy.

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“Mannequins Make Me Feel
Like a Failure.”
—
Claudia, age 13

S
o how do you think you make
us
feel?

Winter white shifts to spring floral to the bleak chill

of swimwear, and all the while we stand rigid

as you stride through the doors,

scanning the racks for answers, a little grace

that doesn't pinch.

You say you want to be created in our image.

Sorry, it's the other way around.

We look hard, but underneath we are

a mess. And if we did have the power to

flex our hands, don't you think we would

shake you like sick-and-tired mothers?

You should know how lucky you are

to have someone ask
you
the questions:

Can I help you find anything?

Can I help you?

Can I help?

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If Tampons
Were for Guys

O
f course there are no pink wrappers,

only camo.

Forget Gentle Glide and pictures of pearls—

the box reads Smooth Ride across

the hood of a bitchin' red Porsche.

For pads with Wings, Kotex shows jet fighters.

For Heavy Flow, ninjas surf a tsunami.

For Scented, smiling blondes in bikinis

enjoy sniffing a crotch.

Panty Shields are now just Shields

or maybe Boxer Armor.

On the commercial, tanks roll through the bathroom,

manned by scowling marines in white pants.

Then it's back to
Monday Night Football
,

where both starting quarterbacks are on the DL.

“Dysmenorrhea,” mutter the trainers.

In other words, cramps.

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The Giant's Daughter
at Spring Formal

I
t's bad enough

that the other girls shopped at Teeny Town,

and I'm decked out in

Tarp City,

but even through the perfume

of my pumpkin-size corsage,

Papa will smell Jack on me when I get home,

those greedy little hands.

He'll stagger around the castle

hunting for bones to grind

until I tuck him in. Then I'll toss

the bottles down through the clouds

where Mama won't find them,

and wait out by the beanstalk.

Someday I'll meet a guy

I can look up to.

One who's not a drunken oaf

or a shrimp whose jeering buddies

dared him to make the climb.

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The Anorexic Eats a Salad

M
ountains rise, fall, rise again.

Stars complete their slow trek into oblivion.

A snail tours the length of China's Great Wall

twice.

All those pesky cancers—cured.

Somewhere in Lower Manhattan,

a barista finally

smiles.

Roundworms evolve into ovals.

Flatworms get chesty.

Molasses, a tortoise, and sedimentation

run the fifty-yard dash.

Results pending.

Temps plunge in hell. The devil

waxes his skis.

She has almost made it through

her first bite.

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A Witch's
Disenchantment

L
ove charms never were my thing.

Such spells call for ingredients

missing from my cupboard.

Instead of eye of newt,

plump lips.

Instead of tongue of toad,

smooth skin.

Instead of finely ground unicorn horn

from the emerald decanter,

big tits.

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M
y only no-fail potion:

boredom mixed with

lack of options.

A lonely traveler

winds his unmagical arm

around my waist as I stare

into the cauldron, afraid

to look up and confront

my pitiful power.

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“Sweet Nothings”