Smile

this is a repost of a poem i lost during the great wc crash. this was a versonators' challenge to write a poem based on a photo or piece of artwork. my friend challenged me with a picture by buhot.

 

 

 

 

she survives with a hand-me-down smile

less a few teeth; but still beaming…

fractured naivety.

 

her world is a double-wide smudge

crisscrossed with the sharp lines of

his hands

hands as big as her waist

fingerprints like whips

her skin a canvas for his drink to color.

 

in the quiet months of his highway lovers

she bundles in the shadows looking for

tornados.

she snuck in and watched the wizard of oz

once

her tomato-soup belly a whisper behind the wall

as her carrot hair leaned far enough for

her ice-cream eyes to widen with wonder.

 

it’s four days before he comes back smelling of

diesel and lip gloss

and the mailman is delivering more than the mail.

hidden in the foreign sounds of her mother

she moves to the discarded navy blue

of his trade.

 

deep within the unintelligible mess she finds her doorway.

a postcard

a picture print of French artist Felix Buhot

the 3x5 picture within a picture

stares up yellow and romantic.

she eats it up

caviar on trailer trash taste-buds.

 

his return is met with practiced happiness

her hand-me-down smile ready to disarm his hunger.

but it only lasts for so long.

 

she waits till the father leaves

pronouns in her belly.

she pulls the postcard out and smiles.

it’s her own…. secret smile.

 

buhot’s world looks back

horse-and-carriage

crystal fountain

grand houses filled with plump women

and dapper gentlemen

she lets a single tear fall to the cobbled streets

and then she closes the door.  

 

Reviews

[JelliFyshKissUs]

Ah... the phrases, the phrases, the delectable phrases~
And I sip on them like orange spiced tea
But the story that unfolds behind the gold wrapping is a truffle of deliciousness in itself. When I glance at photos from yesteryear, I can imagine the women who painted smiles across their faces while the man of the house conceals shades of lipstick with a high collar and unhappiness with pulled corkscrews. But there is something that fills her facade with true color... and that is what truly matters.

[Emily B]

I had read it. I remember now. Such excellence in word. I spend a lot of time in and out of worlds. Somewhere between here and the past. It can feel very much like you've described sometimes.

[Laura E. Aranda]

her skin a canvas for his drink to color.
That was beautiful....the metaphor made me catch my breath.......cheers,lea

[Emily B]

oh, wow, practiced hopelessness . . . described so well.

[After the Blackbird Sin..]

Wow, that was wonderfully descriptive and painful to read, but good. Very powerful without being melodramatic. Nice job.

[Melon Choly]

Ouch...so painful was the finish. It hurt. Wow...good job my dear!