We never show up dead, now do we
and who always does the driving?
You don’t have to shout in front
of the children, sighs my mother,
looking at the buildings passing by.
My brother in his diaper is wedged
in between them.
I sit in the backseat on my knees,
arms around my father’s neck.
He’s a lemon-scented cigarette.
When I grow up
I’ll be your girlfriend.
My mother pulls my sleeping brother
to her lap. Her lips grow thin.
You’re just too old to talk
like that and you’re much too
big for dolls.
It’s true. I’m forty-seven.
I better pull myself together.
I think I need a husband or two.
If you haven’t men with money,
a count with a castle will do.
Be sure and put my picture
in the paper: smiling bride.
We’ll take a safari to honeymoon,
sit in the lap of a World War jeep,
lurch through the yellow scrub
and twisted trees.
My husband, pale counter,
is sitting beside me
his bony hand is on my knee.
Poor darling isn’t doing well.
Let’s cut this short then.
I can afford it. We’ll sail
across one short sea, float
home in trains. I take it all
back with me. Bonjour New
Jersey you fat doll’s arm.
— Marlys West
This article appears in September 27 • 1996 and September 27 • 1996 (Cover).