Miranda Dennis
GIRLS UNSMILING
I don't have to describe this,
even if
God rests heavily on the soft shoulders
of eighteen year old girls,
who without delay and a certain
sullenness, rest cigarettes
on their lips, posing,
pretending
this is a thing called spontaneity
or art.
I circle words in the dictionary
until the burn-thin papers
bleed with ink. This is not
unusual or an innate
sense of geniusness.
I am not a girl willing
to wrap my arms
around my knees
and stare
into the solemn distance
as someone snaps
my picture and proclaims
me sad or introspective,
sure to mat this one
or that one for a boring art show
called "Soul Perspectives."
I would rather eat my words
and coat my tongue in black,
not meaning, of course,
to sound anymore tortured
than I am.
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