There are oh-so-many things a woman can do with the business
end of a diamond. Cut a man’s throat and the blood rinses away
easily. Slice an eerie, convincing grin into the back of your head.
Gut a rival. Snip an emergency hem to release the utter glamour
of knobbed knees. Magically turn Tuesday’s wig into Saturday’s.
The secret is to never stop crooning, to inject your roundabout lyric
with air, a little violence, frosted water. Warble like you were born
with the engine of switched hips, like your breasts suddenly swing
beyond your absence of breasts. Ms. Ross, you will be underestimated.
Just make sure they never find out how you killed Florence, slyly
slipping just the slightest hesitation into her fat heart, introducing
the suggestion that it explode. Fling glitter at their faces and cup
a diamond in your palm. Shimmy your history into a sequined
sheath, where no one will ever find it. Disguise it as sin, as sway.