Jan 152010

by Lyn Lifshin

pinned on stiff tulle,

glowed in the painted

high school moonlight.

Mario’ Lanza’s Oh My

Love. When Doug

dipped I smelled

Clearasil. Hours in

the tub dreaming of

Dick Wood’s fingers

cutting in, sweeping

me close. I wouldn’t

care if the stuck

pin on the roses

went thru me,

the yellow musk

would be a wreathe

on the grave of that

awful dance where

Louise and I sat

pretending we didn’t

care, our socks fat

with bells and fuzzy

ribbons, silly as we

felt. I wanted to be

home, wanted the

locked bathroom to

cry in, knew some

part of me would

never stop waiting

to be asked to dance