Misti Rainwater-Lites
Truth Glass
Shawna I think of you in Seymour
in your trailer behind La Siesta
where in the summer I would hold
my breath paying three dollars
to swim in the pool
in the office that reeked of curry.
Touching the turquoise and royal blue
tiled fish on the bottom,
pretending to be a mermaid
with honeydew tits
aquamarine hair
and purple eyes
I believed myself
Empress of Something.
You have never worn a tiara
or a ring on the value proving finger
you have never laughed crazy in the Pacific
drunk on moonloss and Mexican beer
you have never held a weeping man
or weeping child in your mama arms.
I know your mama left you in the crib
that day and never looked back
or sent a balloon or a card
and I have thought on that
as I have watched my son suck
his thumb in his sleep
my heart aching with too much, too much.
Shawna the glamor I have conjured up
the days I have scratched out
from my rabbit patch
the magic I have thrown
like candy to the April winds
has not brought the Brazos to my door.
The bones will never be buried
deep enough
and the ghosts of those burned down
houses and gas stations
will never let me
wipe the mud
from my feet.
You asked me that day how you looked,
your sad brown dog eyes
embellished with cheap blue eyeshadow,
the weight of at least half the world
sagging your extra large plain girl shoulders.
I felt superior when I lied in a kind tone,
told you that you looked good.
My grandmother cried as we watched you
board the bus for Alabama.
“That’s as good as that girl is ever
gonna have it,” she said.
And now
all these
years later
I can
identify.
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