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October 21, 2020 Poetry

Six of Hearts

Erika Nestor

Six of Hearts photo


My brain’s a sponge: once
I slept with a playing card beneath
my pillow to stain my thoughts
bright red. Let’s not dwell too long
on the times I snuck juice and vodka
and postured for the mirror in a towel.
I monitored the gap between my thighs
for the slightest sign of cellulite
when an older woman praised
my child-bearing hips. I told my sister
my pointe shoes smelled like roses. I rejected
the suggestion of artifice, waded
in the lake wearing my mom’s sunhat.
I was all shyness; I had not burned yet.

 

image: Amanda Jones


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