How I Became Miss America

There she is, Bert Parks is singing

and I am weeping as her gleaming teeth shine

through the wide-open window of her mouth.

When I grow up, I could be her.

Though I can’t dance or sing

and girls fool enough to do dramatic

readings never win. But I’ve got time

and tonight my tears are hers,

falling like sequins down those lovely cheekbones.

I’ve just embraced the first runner-up,

who pretends to be happy for me,

sheaves of roses cradled, mink-trimmed cape

waltzed over my shoulders.

I’m starting down the runway.

My mother sips her highball.

My father leans back on the grease spot

his wavy hair has rubbed into the sofa.

We’re six miles inland from Atlantic City

in a railroad apartment over Hy-Grade Wines and Liquors.

They worked all week selling Seagram’s and cheap wine

and this is Saturday night. Summer. The windows raised

to catch whatever breeze might enter.

No one could predict that twenty-five years later

I’d be chanting No more profits off women’s bodies

at the Myth California counterpageant

where Nikki Craft poured the blood of raped women

on the civic center steps, splashing

her ceramic replicas of Barbies:

Miss Used, Miss Directed, and Miss Informed.

And Ann Simonton, former Vogue model, posed as Miss Steak

in a gown sewn from thirty pounds of scalloped bologna

with a hot dog neckline and parsley garnish.

I’d just left my husband and come out as a lesbian.

My lover, in a tie and fedora, marched

with her poster, Nestlé Kills Babies.

That night we didn’t need a moon.

From the minute my child fell asleep until we collapsed,

exhausted on her water bed, we made love

as one of Nikki’s statuettes

in a glow-in-the-dark blue gown and tiara

watched over us, Miss Ogyny

painted in gold across her sash.