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Emily Rose Cole
Published on: 7/19/2013
You are a phenomenal bitch,
all high-and-mighty in your Blahniks,
magpie gaze agleam, selecting which
Coach bag best matches your silks this week.
I've stared into starvation's sunken face,
rib by rib, I've counted down her days.
In poverty, we hoard saltines and waste
away, while you bleed cold, hard cash, a "slave"
to denim, leather. But as you turn your other
cheek I catch the swollen skin, your violet blues.
Class consciousness evaporates.
You're my sister now, my dressed-up double.
Even name-brands can't completely cover
our raw nerve endings: we're all frayed. All bruised.
Published on: 7/17/2013
I remember the first time
I witnessed you refining your rough edges.
Squinting into the mirror, your lips
squeezed in a granite line,
you tweezed invisible hairs
from the curve of your chin.
that when I asked what you were doing,
you told me you were plucking out ugliness.
Did I want a mother who looked
like the Bearded Lady?
Armed with a story about anthropomorphic pigs
who swore by their chin-hairs
that they would not fall prey to a crafty wolf,
I reached up to your knee
and quoted my favorite PBS philosopher to you:
"I like you just the way you are."
I remember that you did not smile.
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