I have my outfit for the dance.
A shawl Kiki lent me à la Maria.
A flare felt skirt from last year.
And a peasant blouse from Grandma.
But as I’m putting myself together,
Judith plants herself in the middle of my room,
Medea to my Maria,
turning around in slow motion
like an off-duty pinwheel, staring,
her mouth a downturned, dark-maroon sliver.
“Look at this mess! You’re a pig!”
Her accusations have no particular order:
“selfish, lousy, spoiled rotten…”
She’s a walking thesaurus for hateful words.
Somewhere in the Bronx, there’s
a mother telling her daughter,
“Wow! You look beautiful, darling.
Nobody can compare.”
Judith’s put-downs don’t make me
want to straighten up my room.
“Can’t you lay off me?
You never lay off me.”
She growls, “Be careful, young lady,
or you’re not going anywhere.”
I send my grandmother
a mental message:
When will you tune in?!
This is my life.