In the Pink
I walk the beach
by the Tickle Inn
and I know
that breakups suck.
There’s some camo
you can try
to conceal you
from yourself
but the skirt
keeps riding up.
I know. I’m sad, too.
The sugary white sands
of ovarian cancer
and the Lifetime Channel
slowly pouring
from the glass.
Jellyfish are goo
and survive by
being poisonous,
transparent.
I can’t do that,
but I’ve got goals:
to become
a certified personal trainer/
nutrition consultant.
Let me tell you
how
to look like me:
the flamingo
with the rick-rack
tail
and rhinestone eyes:
black as yes
and shining,
an enormous
personal growth
that a hot and shirtless
hubby watches,
plushly thanking
gender roles
for less than complete
coverage
of athletic rounding.
Forget him, girl:
straddle
that airbrushed sunset
and feather
your nest
with this advice:
be the bower ballad,
the last one standing.
Ride the curl.
Check out the Rumpus Review of Maureen Thorson’s Applies to Oranges.
