My mirror could have lied
but it chose not to.
I asked it sweetly, slowly
to change for me
to change me
into something free and vital,
pale and careless,
white as snow and unburdened song.
I kept staring at the woman in front of me,
dark eyes and hair
twisted and curled together
signaling other and flawed and Different
offset, upsetting,
yellow stars falling on snowy fields
history wrapped in a dark pupil’s blink.
Heat will help, applied directly,
over and over and
smoothing and fixing,
covering hints of Saturday candles
smells of bread and chanted whispers,
wrapped behind a cover of Same and Self and Belong,
inflection and accent swallowed down
depths of languages fading and forgotten.
I looked at you in November, after the world fell
and asked you the question,
can I pass?
Am I covered?
am I safe and normal and complete
showing nothing but pink skin and straight hair?
Covered yes yet always feeling twisted crosses passing over me
like lamb’s blood painted on a doorframe, long ago.
Maia Jacey Frieser is a writer and a PhD student in Behavioral Genetics at the University of Colorado Boulder. She studied Anthropology and Public Health before finding herself in the genetics of substance abuse. Originally from the wilds of Manhattan, Maia has lived in Montreal and Michigan before breaking her streak of M-names by moving to Colorado.
the patterns do not change __ __ __ __
they are misremembered __ __ __ __
cool hand __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __
separate heat __ __ __ __ __ __
Be gentle don’t bump it I’ve got Andromeda centered
In the viewfinder but it will already have shifted slightly
Gliding its trillion stars and their moons in millimeters
Behind the local legends painted ancient on the dome
but ask me again how much
I care about the other mouths
that could call my name.
We’d get home, and he’d go back to weaseling money out of Mom
and squandering it on things that were smokable or fit in a syringe,
on what wasn’t bread. The little money he made came from
selling our family’s things: Mom’s jewelry, TV and VCR
swallows actin’ drunk
swimmin’ overhead
chasin’ each other ‘round
like brand new lovers
stumblin’ out the bar at 2 am
I command subjects, turn math to English, history
to lunch, govern teachers and students alike in
my slow crawl through middle and high school
periods.
We are all God’s little playthings. Or else why are we on a ball.
I had the goods,
the lowdown, the skinny,
the whole truth
and nothing but.
I was dangerously
in the know.
If you listen, really listen, their voices come back.
They start to tell you about places you’ve
never been, about things you want with
a ferocity that scares you sometimes. They make
sense. Sit with them on the couch and watch
a movie you know is bad.
Only connect
indeed. Dressed and buckled in
like chefs or psychiatric patients,
they shuffle and lunge.