after Kristi Estefania Stout Larios
But in her day it was Filene’s. Today, she’ll pantomime affection in her
monochrome sweatsuit. She twists rings on, off, arthritic—bashful
reflex. Dentured but dolly, she untucks her bottle blonde locks, hearing
aids hidden. Fourteen karat cataracts glint off diamonds, but the clerk
handsomes her evening. And she wants him, hard against the counter, holding
her like honeymoon china: priceless, prized. This is how all the young girls
feel, skin plump and lips plush. She flushes in the lush of pearl mock marble
mall tile. Her drab daughter drags her back, nags about credit damage,
holding her mother’s shame in five two-packs of Spanx. Again, devoid of
body, glamoured fantasies blemish back to storage. Lips sucked against
gums, she tears away without fuss, demure in her indulgence, guilty
baring her soul to the caged jewelry case. How dare she crave opulence.
Wet with hunger, she hoards humbleness. She cradles emptiness, armfuls
of clearance. Will this too be willed, wilting in bed? No magic so cruel.