The Sand Hill Review http://www.sandhillreview.org 2004
Red Hair
A clutch of Japanese
adolescents
wait for a bus––
In
seven, six, five,
each with hair bleached rust
taking up the sun
so that they become
a small orange furred
herd of lithe limbed
animals.
The bus will come, of course
it will come and if not, what
an
adventure, a cab, a hike, a
jaywalking spree into the
blueing evening. Brief,
the slender arms and legs,
brief, the opening, the taut
eyeskin, the ease of the body,
swinging, swinging. We
were like that once, fussing
about elbows and
in a world of Marilyns.
We were effortlessly unhappy
waiting for our breasts to
grow,
believing the packages, Wheat
and Honey Blond, exposing
the limits of peroxide––the
red
of salted cars, a glaring
example of the potency of
chemistry.
The rules for appeal so
limited,
most need not apply.
Bones, my mother said,
ironing board, chicken breasted
she said with me in front of
the mirror,
straight up and down she
clucked.
The Concentration
she told the others.
To be young is to be aswoon
where symmetry's the only
god, the soul's beauty
a pathetic fallacy.
Bones––I was an antelope
leaping through tall grasses.
I was the mannequin
for a drape of calico,
feet light upon the earth,
hair deep chocolate,
funny colored eyes,
the sea.
We stood there at the top
of the highway in your
mother's gowns and
pots of make-up waving
like parading movie stars,
stays making our dresses
stand up for attention.
Skinny clowns in too big
clothes, the boys hooting,
leaning on their horns,
knowing
sex was growing, a
fat waxy bud at the
coccyx of our spines.
In the persimmon afternoon,
the last days of freedom
before
the plaid and shame of
school, we
were defiant in the face of
and flesh, our plastic
bracelets
really gold and gleaming, the
sun lining
our heads with amber
halos. Angels
of defiance in loose high
heels and
clip-on rhinestones, our
teeth made white
with Cherries in the
Snow. Oh,
our spirits were silver flags
waving
and we were stepping out,
were stepping
out, to find a baby all our
own.
On the day before they shut
us in
for winter, we were women, we
were catches. We were beautiful
and gleaming.
JCWatson