Beauty Killer Poem No. 2: La Doctora Serveys Her Clientele

Shame stretches their skin,
and they come to me.
Bloated, canvas of hurt, I am
repulsed. Curl into myself
like a yard snake.

The women shuffle
and heave in my doorway,
laden in track-suit folds.
Even their dreams sweat. They flinch

at the slightest touch, all bruise
so easily. That’s how
they got here.

Like American prom queens,
scheming their own
funerals. A tear in every eye.
Heavy as ripe fruit, determined
to drop. The sun, a siege
in their kitchens,

screeches morning. The dishes
march toward them
in rows. Firing-squad precision.

The poorest plead
a bargain. The currency
of desperation. When husband
turns at night
to thin daughter.

For a price, I can
fix this. Though sometimes
I don’t want to touch them.
This weakness, a contagion,
can jump like fleas,
from their arms to mine.
The blood we all want.

To smile and not crack
like the clay without rain.
I whisper, love will fall
from the sky.

Dishes will not break,
and husbands will sleep
in their own beds.

Today their front lawns
try to swallow them whole.
Thirsty yards buckle and lurch.
They hurtle down sidewalks,
in wobbling stiletto panic.

I offer the end of a rope.
A doorway. A promise.
That heads will turn—
and fall into their laps.

—JENNIFER LOVEGROVE

(Originally published summer, 2004.)