gendered repetitions
Mommy is getting me ready to go to the birthday party. My dress has a sprawling floral print, with a white lacy front to frame pearlescent buttons. The skirt of the dress puffs out a little and my hair is just as much a bouffant. The girl’s gift is carefully wrapped, shimmering in our best wrapping paper and even adorned with a bow.
Suddenly I’m standing at the door ringing the bell. Her mother invites me in.
Leaving one world for the other
Sinking, sticking, and swallowed by the pool, the tar adheres to my dress and the dress, in turn, to my person. Slick and shiny, it laps at me, lulls me into the earth, consumes me and makes me Something else; Something ugly with a bow on top.
Realizing the faux pas, becoming it
I can take off the dress, but can I remove its mark?
The others can laugh, but not me. I’m waiting for the sticky stuff to slide off and make me more like them.
When it does I can swim, fly, tumble, and speak with the rest. Until then, I walk off to be alone, with my mark as my excuse.
