Shirley Temple

I'll take a little something when I feel like it. I'll sip the gin

and taste the diet tonic. I'll squeeze the lime and lose it

under ice, round and hollow, speared through with the red end

of a cocktail straw. It's all different alone, with a book at the bar,

on the other side of youth. It'd be better with grenadine.

//

Girlhood was a dance through diner booths, elbowing brothers

over forkfuls of mac 'n cheese and floppy fries. It was side salads,

untouched, ice-sweat plastic cups with cartoon bears outside

and Shirley Temple inside. Tart 'n sassy. Cherry red. I bet them a dollar

I could tie a soggy stem into a knot with my tongue. It was my magic trick.

//

In the book I'm reading, Shirley Temple tells me she's been bad.

Crying isn't cute, even if you're three, even if you can tap dance

circles around the big boys of Baby Burlesks. So they lock her up

in the soundbooth. They give her a block of ice for a chair and she sits,

cherry on top. And then they make her dance some more.

//

My brothers have drawers full of crinkling candy wrappers. They drink

milk by the gallon and never worry if it's whole. I stopped

when I outgrew my favorite shirt. They still order Dirty Shirleys and shoot

their straw wraps over dim bar tables, they still stick out dyed-red tongues.

I sin. I steal a sip. I only taste the sugar now, on the other side of youth.

//

The little lady lost her job when she couldn't shake the baby fat.

The little lady had to wear fake teeth to fill in all her baby gaps.

The little lady was poked and prodded, tugged and tickled, cast aside.

She made those big boys money and they hardly left her any. They even

took her name and poured it over ice. Cherry on top.

_____________________________

Author's Note: If you also want to ruin some childhood memories, the book I'm reading is "Child Star" by Shirley Temple Black. She turned out just fine, but that's more a credit to her than to the Hollywood machine that built her up, abused her, and spit her out like a cherry pit.