Ode to Hairy Legs and Hot Pants
You suckered me, Legs—
had me digging in the cedar chest
for my sister’s Lederhosen,
the closest thing I had to hot pants.
Short, tight, slightly ridiculous—
but you had plans.
No Mary Quant knickers,
in our house—just Bavarian leather,
the ghost of Oktoberfest
nudging me forward,
no ‘70s velour short shorts—
rich girl underpants, maybe—
bad news for the knobby kneed,
for Marlene Dietrich Blue Angels
who’d lost their color,
traded platforms for dinosaur slippers
that roared with each step.
And I was eleven. Golden,
my mother said, pointing
to my legs: Hair, soft as feathers.
But how long was I bound to grow it?
Braid it? Before I was allowed
To shave it?
Once, at Ukrainian Plast camp,
I borrowed a Parker butterfly razor
from a tent-mate and tried.
Didn’t know I had to twist it shut.
Sorry for skidding across your shins,
For the blood that signed its name—
dumb, too new to have real purpose.
You tricked me, Legs,
into showing you off—
leather ties just below the hips,
red leather heart pockets.
At twelve, I packed them
for the 2nd World’s Fair
posing as a fab chick
stepping out of the British pavilion,
showing off your glory—
stiff Lederhosen cutting circulation—
but fabulously forward
in natural fur.
My parents loved the valderi in me,
their mountain-climbing wunderkind.
So beautiful—
until some boys passed,
pointed, laughed:
Here she comes, Miss America,
braces flicking off corn dog light,
dressed to match their bad teeth,
not understanding hair—
its progeny, dark, circular, kinky—
forbidden to touch,
that which tempts a man to bite.
Legs, I grew to punish you—
long skirts, pioneer dresses,
hidden razor cuts behind the knees,
Nudit that stank to high heaven,
shaking fledgling angels down,
plugging their noses,
hairless and shivering.
I wondered about those not-so-hot
leather shorts, dried to cardboard.
Did you miss them—me, Legs?
I tell myself:
There’s always armpit hair,
nipple hairs—
all things adult that shelter
when young and miraculous
no longer disarms.
Moths Eat My Giorgio Armani Dress
Elegantly displayed on a velvet hanger—
plush, rubbed raw—
the brutalist grey jersey sheath,
black striped, with structured shoulders,
moaned faintly
signaling a vacant life—
hollow as Dorothy’s Tin Man
rusted in rain-soaked woods.
You mean me?
When was the last time I oiled anything?
I’d come for consigned winter Uggs—
muddied but priced to trek again,
lined up against the wall
like dirty sheep. Instead, I drifted
toward her, pulled like new moon
navigating the wrong phase.
I’d let myself be seduced, $48.00,
a fair price for what desire left behind,
a last wish wasted on a candle-studded
night, never to catch fire again.
Who gave up? What sort of lover
would take the $24.00 and disappear?
I couldn’t stop imagining who she once undressed for—
maybe the one who died young,
spared from vows
to outlast the cold.
His, left behind, would be a
sherpa-lined fleece jacket
with hidden pockets,
zippers that never close.
Then there was the one who settled
into a long solitude,
growing a beard while I was still
trying to read his face,
his midnight blue sweater
wicked soft—darkening in the night.
But consignment stores rarely want men’s clothes,
story-less, no secrets soaking in the wash.
Instead, they slump on the backs of chairs—
a chain of leftovers—
or on mahogany wood hangers,
a quiet release—like the one most recent
hovering unseen, watching me
bag my prize.
Damn, what loss shaped you
into something I can almost taste—
bitter, but what good taste you have,
words fluttering loose like moths
out his throat.
Giving it Away
What gave it away? my mother asks her dinner guests.
She runs her hand down her neck as if smoothing a rare piece of cloth,
curious if that’s how they knew her age. She straightens
her back, draws her neck in. But the movement
collapses on itself, making her look folded—like a stork
who’s lost its delivery, wondering if we have a piece of bread to spare.
It’s always the hair, she says. But wigs never help. Especially
the short, corkscrew-curled ones. They make no difference
whether you wear them backwards or forwards,
whether you’re coming or going.
Who sees the eagle just ahead of extinction?
Only hunters, stretching their shadows farther,
claiming more room than they need.
Nothing gave it away, I tell her. You’re ten years younger
than he guessed. That man was just hell-bent on being rude
because your borscht had a bug in it.
You’re hypercritical, she snaps. No one sees that well. Or worse—
you’re afraid of nature, trying to compete with it.
Your hands look like dried earth.
But rubber gloves are for morticians, I fire back. Maybe it’s your outfit.
Knee socks don’t work over 80,
even if you’re still looking for a balloon,
blocking your ears as it bobs by, knowing it will pop.
Not everything calls you back to childhood.
But sometimes, a few do.
A neck, a balloon, a bug in the borscht.
The small things we try to smooth over, hide, or explain away.
Before they break our heart.
