Melissa Newman-Evans
FOR MAMA
(from Here Comes Honey Boo Boo)
Mama dyes her hair blonde and calls herself a bombshell.
Her partner bought her a plus-size Marilyn Monroe white dress
for Halloween. They both know they are here to be laughed at.
The show does not come right out and say it, but there are subtitles
on some of their speech, complete with condescending misspellings
like sammich and maranaise. This house does not look like any other house
on television. Extreme couponing is the unspoken sixth child in this family.
She sits at the dinner table every night, and Mama mothers her fiercely.
But Mama also raised a daughter with self-confidence so loud
that the whole country wanted to see how the trick worked.
It had to be a trick, after all. No way were they happy, in their
not-looking-like-television house.
But Mama says: I don’t want her to grow up like me. I don’t want her to grow up
like you, either. I want her to grow up like herself. I want her to be
whatever she wants to be. And if all this gawking now means she can,
then good. I’ll cut coupons for that.
I’ll invite everyone over for dinner and feed the whole country
at the trough of our dignity for that. And if Mephistophiles is money,
and fame, and all of America, Mama says, I’ll smile for the camera. I’ll sit here
as long as the demon tells me to.
-------------------------------------------------
A DESPERATION DANCES
The night of your high school prom is probably your last night on earth.
In the movies you snuck into,
this is where you take off your glasses, figure out eyeliner,
and walk down the stairs so beautiful
that the boy waiting at the bottom of them
can barely breathe.
But you have been wearing contacts for years
and there is no boy waiting for you anywhere.
You are surrounded by your other female friends
who are all being choked by chiffon disasters,
dropping it as if it were--at best--lukewarm.
A group of teenage girls is called a desperation,
but do not tell them that.
You are runt wolverines.
Tiger kittens in a burlap sack
Goldfish about to get flushed
Your hips are circling the drain.
But this night can only take something from you
if you had it in the first place
and your self worth is so much charcoal powdered for your eyeliner.
You have nothing left to lose
tonight:
when the right song comes on at the right moment
and all the fucks you used to give
about moving your body too much
or too fast
go out the window; let them.
All the people who looked down on you
for your free lunch and your know it all
have made a space for your dancing,
and isn’t that your fangs, coming in?
You are dancing for the girl in the mirror alone:
That cat burglar in a velvet dress and long gloves
Telling yourself the story
that none of this has ever hurt you
that none of this will ever matter again,
a story so good it sounds real and you can shake your ass in time.
You have finally weaponized your desire, so hot
it’ll burn blisters down their throats.
So take a deep breath, kiddo.
Take a minute in the bathroom if you need it.
Staple that smile you've been saving to your face
ain't no rainy day gonna look as good as this dance floor.
Tear it up, like an overdue credit card bill from tomorrow.
Tear it up, like your baby pictures
like you are not tied to anything that you do not choose to be tied to
and fuck this place
and fuck these shoes.
You do not need the DJ to play your song.
Melissa Newman-Evans was a member of the 2012 Boston Poetry Slam at the Cantab Lounge slam team, co-coaches the Emerson College slam team, and has headlined poetry shows around the northeast. Her other work has been recently published in Muzzle, PANK, decomP, Radius, and Side B Magazine. She likes her lipstick red.
FOR MAMA
(from Here Comes Honey Boo Boo)
Mama dyes her hair blonde and calls herself a bombshell.
Her partner bought her a plus-size Marilyn Monroe white dress
for Halloween. They both know they are here to be laughed at.
The show does not come right out and say it, but there are subtitles
on some of their speech, complete with condescending misspellings
like sammich and maranaise. This house does not look like any other house
on television. Extreme couponing is the unspoken sixth child in this family.
She sits at the dinner table every night, and Mama mothers her fiercely.
But Mama also raised a daughter with self-confidence so loud
that the whole country wanted to see how the trick worked.
It had to be a trick, after all. No way were they happy, in their
not-looking-like-television house.
But Mama says: I don’t want her to grow up like me. I don’t want her to grow up
like you, either. I want her to grow up like herself. I want her to be
whatever she wants to be. And if all this gawking now means she can,
then good. I’ll cut coupons for that.
I’ll invite everyone over for dinner and feed the whole country
at the trough of our dignity for that. And if Mephistophiles is money,
and fame, and all of America, Mama says, I’ll smile for the camera. I’ll sit here
as long as the demon tells me to.
-------------------------------------------------
A DESPERATION DANCES
The night of your high school prom is probably your last night on earth.
In the movies you snuck into,
this is where you take off your glasses, figure out eyeliner,
and walk down the stairs so beautiful
that the boy waiting at the bottom of them
can barely breathe.
But you have been wearing contacts for years
and there is no boy waiting for you anywhere.
You are surrounded by your other female friends
who are all being choked by chiffon disasters,
dropping it as if it were--at best--lukewarm.
A group of teenage girls is called a desperation,
but do not tell them that.
You are runt wolverines.
Tiger kittens in a burlap sack
Goldfish about to get flushed
Your hips are circling the drain.
But this night can only take something from you
if you had it in the first place
and your self worth is so much charcoal powdered for your eyeliner.
You have nothing left to lose
tonight:
when the right song comes on at the right moment
and all the fucks you used to give
about moving your body too much
or too fast
go out the window; let them.
All the people who looked down on you
for your free lunch and your know it all
have made a space for your dancing,
and isn’t that your fangs, coming in?
You are dancing for the girl in the mirror alone:
That cat burglar in a velvet dress and long gloves
Telling yourself the story
that none of this has ever hurt you
that none of this will ever matter again,
a story so good it sounds real and you can shake your ass in time.
You have finally weaponized your desire, so hot
it’ll burn blisters down their throats.
So take a deep breath, kiddo.
Take a minute in the bathroom if you need it.
Staple that smile you've been saving to your face
ain't no rainy day gonna look as good as this dance floor.
Tear it up, like an overdue credit card bill from tomorrow.
Tear it up, like your baby pictures
like you are not tied to anything that you do not choose to be tied to
and fuck this place
and fuck these shoes.
You do not need the DJ to play your song.
Melissa Newman-Evans was a member of the 2012 Boston Poetry Slam at the Cantab Lounge slam team, co-coaches the Emerson College slam team, and has headlined poetry shows around the northeast. Her other work has been recently published in Muzzle, PANK, decomP, Radius, and Side B Magazine. She likes her lipstick red.