by Kayla Monteiro

My teeth have begun to peel
and my hair’s all split.
The doctor said not to worry.
Ladies like you —
with bricks for knees
and cinder block hands —
don’t go down easy.
I figure maybe if I paint my cheeks Ivory, or coat my voice box in leather,
he’ll take some notice.
Nothin’ to be done about that now.
When I shuffle my suitcase home
I retire.
Wrinkled up sighs
and wind heaving,
the empty corners groan.
I lay my head
on my crooked neck
and invite the ceiling over for tea — even she ignores me.
…
I look out the window and picture
Witch Doctors and Shamans,
of whom I should belong to.
Their hands that cradle
Belief.
Their stares that would have seen.
At last, I jar my eyes
and set my hair in its nightly tomb,
pretending all the while,
that tomorrow will promise something better.

Kayla is a graduating senior. She is majoring in English and minoring in Classical and Ancient Mediterranean Studies. Next year she hopes to obtain a job publishing Young Adult Fiction. In her free time she enjoys reading and writing Beatnik poetry, working on her zine First Thought Best Thought, and making a fool of herself while doing yoga.