John SURVIVOR Blake - Hands
The mothers take their revenge
on the pretty bullets that tore through their wombs
that left ballistic scars and bloody messes,
spilled through stretch marks,
the children are brought here,
chain-ganged to their mothers’ dreams,
penance for fleshing out ten centimeters
in order to breathe, the nerve, on top of it all,
having potential,
Backstage, an ensemble of nails rake hair
until knots surrender, stop crying, begging
to go home,
don’t you want to be beautiful?
hands cage faces, spread upwards and catch,
snatch soft skulls stiff to powder flaws away,
flaws on little girl taught
flaws are not acceptable under tiaras,
fingers snake about doe eyes, paste false lashes,
smear lipstick and gloss over mouths starved for approval,
black pencils, scalpel sharp, cut just inside to hide wrinkles
forty years in the distance, tans sprayed along anemic limbs,
toddlers powerless to challenge parental guidance,
the hands spider down wigs, spin weaves,
crown early lessons on beautiful, dolls propped, auction block stilts,
and the bidding war for self-worth begins, another herd,
newly shoe-ed cattle, locks curled storybook enchantment,
free-roaming princess made to rest easy before hatchets and hooks,
mothers swarm daughters, finishing touches,
pose television antenna bones, coached how to conjure
hunger in a grown man’s belly, how to thirst for womanhood,
no thinking needed, just a bathing suit, gown,
some casual wear, and maybe, maybe a little personality,
but not too much,
and the tots walk the walk, smile,
teeth bleached pedophile-shine, top dollar,
ages newborn to pubescent years old,
so sexy,
Six pounds of flesh
only three days old,
held out, displayed
for a panel of judges,
a father extends his arm, locks
his elbow, exhibits his newborn son
in one hand, fingers gripping the baby
a newly plastic-packaged meat, bow tie lynched,
sweating through the tuxedo,
Look what I have done
with cum and a shopping spree,
too weak to raise his tiny head, Dad
quickly raises the neck as the judges lean,
breath on the baby and see how well
he will wear success,
and hands clap in a symphony of slaps,
the hands beat each other to show praise,
mechanisms of bloody collisions, the palms, red
with excitement,
the girls do not weep, lest mascara oozes like miscarriages,
save their black streamed cheeks for couch auditions
where they can leave behind virginity stains,
You should have seen the pageant,
glitz, glamor, Cinderellas chased by midnight, Jon Benet’s muffled screams,
Gia loved until AIDS, Cate Olson, count the vertebrate,
thighs growing good meat, mouths pouting,
hearts dry-aged, grown rancid, until layers of mold are shaved
and the children will burn to desired temp, mid-rare, middle,
the color of murder, pink edges, whatever they meant to give
our undeserving world,
where neckties salivate
under well dressed wolves.
