After Receiving My First Valentine’s Rose from a Blue-Uniformed Honda Rep
That night at Marino’s Italian: squelch
of touching tongues, candlelight, and bow-tied
waiters who whisk by with oysters
and tiramisu. Velvet jewelry boxes, wine
stained lips, cleavage, and my fist
that floats in front of my face to hide
Zit-topia—the red mountain range that calls
my chin home. Mom clasps Dad’s hand. They braid
fingers. “Saint Valentine’s decapitated skull,
crowned by fake flowers, lies
in a glass box in Rome,” I say. Fingers
unbraid. “Nationalists in Mumbai
call Valentine’s Day cultural contamination.”
They lean in to hear me above popped corks
and the saxophone’s trill. I lean back so they won’t
see the hairs thatched between my eyebrows
and on my upper lip. Outside the door
of my apartment building I wave
goodbye with a half-raised arm that hides
the wet where armpit meets T-shirt. Inside,
I strip off clothes but leave on green
and orange mismatched socks. The mirror warps
my face as I stroke the lipstick trace left
by Mom’s kiss on my cheek. Its shade matches
the rose I tuck behind my ear. The rose’s ribbon, blue
and festooned with Honda logos, I tie
as a headband around my hair.
Now dolled up for the occasion, I squat
on the toilet. The rhythm of globs
splashing into water echoes against porcelain.
The toilet paper, stamped with hearts
and roses, I use to wipe.
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Reprinted from Likely Red Press