The Dream

You look so elegant with your long nails,

the ends a creamy, dreamy statement of infallibility:

who would question my delicate fingers in their state

of growing servitude to beauty?

Cover your body at the beach in just the

right places.

With nylon, not body hair, you idiot.

You’re a girl masquerading as a woman, like

the rest of them.

You’re not like the rest of them.

A real woman has a body like

Scarlett Johansson's.

But you have no hourglass shape, no teardrop waist.

You are a failure.

A freak.

Your hair is thinning, muscles softening.

Your lips hiding, tucked away from everyone.

Eyelashes too short, cheeks to full.

You are too much and never enough,

they say.

Who says?

Who would love those legs of yours?

Calves curved in the wrong places, weak knees,

too stubborn to support your small ankles;

stubby fingers like toes, and some illusion of strength

that men do not see.

No one will see you—only your hip dips

and Tinea Versacolor, the later a spotted display

of your poor hygiene habits.

“I’m a poet,” I tell them.

“Oh,” they would say. “A poetic disgrace,

born to doubt and self-degrade.”

There are a thousand names for grace,

but she is a bedraggled one, seemingly lost and

unknown.

Always a "she"—no hyperbole—why?

Because I am trying to capture and enunciate

the feminine in every nook and cranny

of my brain, projecting the tortured,

unrecognized pieces of myself onto concepts like her.

She found me in my sleep

before I knew I was dreaming.

And she follows me when I am awake.

Are you crazy? She asks.

I am staring at the woman I want to be:

pear-shaped, tight waist, small frame--

but they are all white!

Yes, I tell her. I am crazy about you.

Words of broken mirrors, tearing through

my throat: You promised if I became perfect,

I would have everything.

She laughs. I am in everything. In

everyone. In your breasts like oranges,

your hips like clay houses,

your fingers like sturdy beams.

You cannot escape my embrace.

You do not want a different body.

You do not want to be objectified.

You do not want to be envied.

I'm pretty sure that's the american

dream, I tell her.

america was made by men for men.

You do not want men. You want you.

I want to wake from this endless dream

about the person I will never become.

There are a thousand names for grace,

but she is a bedraggled one, seemingly lost and

unknown.

You will find her in mirrors and half-full teacups;

in windowpanes and rivers;

in oily puddles and dishwater.

(Hint: she will never look the same.)

Search for her in parents and grandchildren;

lizards and bison;

in people, people;

In you, you, you, you;

(she will be found)

in me.