Winner of the 2024 Toni Morrison Day Award
each remembers the day,
sharp on the tongue and heavy in the blood,
a small drop of poison, it is harmless, they say.
every woman must swallow it back like a scream,
along with the memory of who she used to be.
we pinch our bluing lips into vapid pretty grins,
toxins fester in our stomachs as we clench rotting teeth.
the sparkling carnage of our girlhoods in all the debris,
sugar and arsenic dripping down our chins.
when we wince at the pain and dare say that it hurts,
you are so dramatic the boy next to us retorts.
the poison burns deeper, like boiling water,
and there is a forlorn feeling for our mothers’ fates
who douse it with their nightly wine to mask its bitter taste
and paint their nails to hide the rot from their daughters,
hide in a room they decorated alone.
he’s mean to you because he likes you, lighten your tone.
no one listens to she who spews only stones
so we must encase our words with silky pillows
something to let heads sink into, softly and slow.
unspool your dignified spine, do not be so high-strung
like those feminists, who all they do is complain.
meanwhile your thinning skin turns cadaver gray.
the town looks to the angry woman with disdain,
so our mothers brush the rage out of our hair and say
you must learn to cover up the decay,
then drink the laced champagne
golden as the chariot Medea rode into the sky
and repeat, over and over, boys will be boys, and it’s fine.
we learn to hide our poison in indulgent ways
liquid blush to flush our blood-drained faces,
for companies know how to sell to longing escapists,
make our lips sting with glaze, conceal our ire
with the newest rose perfume.
in our slow unsightly death, the beauty industry blooms.
in hours at the vanity, pain momentarily subsides
yet sneers persist. schoolboys will evaluate our attempted allure.
sunset cheeks and scarlet smile, how hard we tried.
they turn to us with their lips snidely curled,
why do you wear so much makeup? I prefer a natural girl.
in the twilight, keys nestled between your fingers,
you walk alone. the harsh chorus rings in your ears,
the vicious dialogue suddenly drowned out as you hear
your old favorite song. the town’s angry woman
tends to her lawn. she smiles at you warmly and invites you in
for tea. when you take a sip, it is laced with nothing but honey.
she says “let the anger simmer like the july sun shines,
admire late summer flowers, accentuate with golden jewelry,
dress in pink with your mother just to go the movies.
as you organize the wisteria and hang the wind chimes
oh, how you will slowly emerge from your tomb.
tie bows in your hair the same hue as your childhood room.”
now your purple fingers, they tremble around the glass
your skin is pale as a winter noon’s light
you recall the woman’s advice and wonder if you will take it tonight
or if you’ll go for another dose of poison.
you stare it in its eye before you spill it onto the floor.
each remembers the day
they did not drink it anymore.