MARY HAMRICK
Ginetta's Secret
Stan swats his girl
five shades lighter than blueberries.
His secret history--a shameful thing.
Sometimes my lips swell like Brazilian cherries
and I swivel away from him. I swivel toward him,
burnt useless under his gaze.
And sometimes by 1 a.m., he?s whittling notches onto this tropical body,
so I come ?round to his way: his drive, his wish, his craving.
Nasty blood vessels pop on his forehead--
must I beg again?
My body is a quiet room of imperfection:
strip off the skin and look for yourself!
Late morning, Momma visits and says,
Ginetta, you have dark silent-movie eyes
that sing ballads of last night.
Huddled by the kitchen table kneading flour into dough--
my womb is exposed on a long, powdered table.
Fingers pinching as they crush, lift, slam?vigoroso.
Tired limbs slip downward onto a chair,
a chair all-knowing and full of devil details.
Momma sits like a man, her long cotton dress is open-wide,
her floured dusty apron reeks of pungent citrus fragrance.
Let?s see, Momma--how can I describe pain? My small mistakes
will resurrect hands that knuckle the body sticky-sweet.
Old woman,
let me tell you the secrets of each night that shies and smalls a woman.
. . . and after the evening meal, he will holler, lay down.
Whey-faced, I will smell like almond milk;
my lips will swell like Brazilian cherries
as I slide in place under the slope of Stan?s bony framework.