by Tiffany Troy
*This poem was written in response to our vintage series illustration prompts. You can see all prompts here.
At the height of my suffering
there appeared a squirrel
at my feet nibbling away,
their luscious tail brushing against
my knee socks as I hold tight
to my chest the white lilies
and a leaf sharp as blade
and feel intently,
the swell of my nipples, that yellow muck
of bacteria, the crust of my skin crispy,
my garment tied with rope girding
an equator of red.
They call me Little Maria and forget
I have become a woman
underneath the Fragonard rococo,
the pinch of my black Sunday church shoes
cracking open my toe nails,
the melanin of my hair paled
to an oak brown with slivers of white
bound tightly by a mahogany bonnet
I ate pills to not self immolate.
I am steroid-induced hunger
as the unwelcome sun sets on my skin.
I hate it as I hate God,
as I hate life for giving me hope,
hope which rises on a warm afternoon
when the leaves are gilded gold-rimmed
before they fall, swinging in the wind.
Soon the Catholic school children will roam
giddy for chocolate gelts for Halloween
but before the sun sets
this late afternoon,
before I put away the itching under my nails
to bid farewell to the parishioners,
in this square that is mine,
I am touched by the handsome squirrel
bent over one nut
as if it’s the only thing in the world.
Oh gosh, what pure joy!
What a one-up for this wayward
New York transplant who has learned
to curse in corporate professional
against the stone walls setting the parameters
of my faith as above me
the frowning sunflowers burdened
by the weight of their golden mane
cannot help
but peak up and beam.
Tiffany Troy is a critic, translator, and poet. Her reviews and interviews are published or forthcoming in Adroit Journal, The Cortland Review, The Los Angeles Review, EcoTheo Review, Heavy Feather Review, and Tupelo Quarterly, where she serves as an associate editor.