Toy Maidens - chapbook

Amie Rose
(for Angelica Rose Petito Evans)
I dreamed about her last night—
Amie Rose propelling streets
in a pink Huffy two-wheeler,
fringe-lined handles slapping her cheeks.

Corner park boys paw across
a maze of rope, in a game.
bodies shifting, maneuvering,
dangling, struggling.

Amie Rose blows through these streets.


Saturday Afternoon With Tracey
We pulled out those old Barbie and Ken dolls
down in your basement, the dream house.
I dressed Barbie, smoothing yellow hair,
red dress, matching heels.

You knew I didn’t want to be Ken, Tracey.
It’s so much more fun being a girl, isn’t it?
Ken and Barbie zoomed off on their dream date.
She admired his creamy white teeth,
knew better, yet no. She set her hopes.

And so much for primping, prepping, plucking,
tightening, clay masks. So much for holding out.

We rubbed their plastic fasces together, disrobing them.
“Hey, let’s try a kiss,” you said.
I never French-kissed anyone
before, Tracey.
We didn’t feel a thing,
except our slimy tongues. We learned.

Now just light yourself another Marlboro Light.
Don’t worry. They don’t make you sterile.
Pick the wish cigarette (you know the one)
turned upside down before lighting up.

Now you’ve lost one Ken, four kids later.
And me—well my little heart dies every day.
Lovers that never loved and the one
love I’m losing.


Bubbles
Waving plastic wants,
Swirling iridescent blue, pink
Streams, bursting soap dew.

Hopscotch
(for Hanna and Melani Lallo Filosa)
Hanna and Melani
painting cement squares,
thick blue lines, crooked edges
numbered through nine.

Slap clapping hands together,
dust clouds puffing,
powdered faces, feet hopping
one leg at a time.

Grim clouds sneak
in, shifting
washing watercolors
blue lines bleeding.

Monkey Bars
Stretching one arm at a time,
pink fingers grip, turn white, pink
with each bar she lunges for before
missing one.

Tender flesh throbs, crimson stains,
coating sugared tiny pebbles black,
shimmery, exposing ridges of Devon’s knees

She slows, gets up, dusts.

Eyes and cheeks crinkle up, but
it hardens, crusts in time.
Red to brown, peels away painlessly,
amid a squirrel’s prying
black eyes.

Gleaming.


Seesaw
(for Angela Lallo Filosa)
We sat upon a hard, wooden plank.
Red paint chipping, exposing white.
Clenching iron handles so cold.
I called you “Angel” and you
were anything but.
We launched, gradually rising,
swiftly descending. Balance.

Angela, your sly, pure smile stopped
a hush of wind to entrance us to stay
lured to your laughter, gentle sighs, keeping
us all so afloat.
Our legs flutter like blossoms, going
into cherry bombs bopping, silly little
No hand tricks I teach Lara now at six.

Will she ever catch your wing, Angela?

So lost, you and I.
But your were still there
When the blossoms fell in autumn
A breeze hoisting petals up before
they touched soil.

She
(for my mom, Seva Nicholaides)
is alive in coffee-stained black and white
snapshots, out of focus,
a one length bob, checkered blouse
near a candle burning.
The wax is caving deeper, the wick slides
Free, unscathed.
She is amber, blue.

Games
On Park Avenue, past WCWs house,
to Fun & Games arcade, strutting our stuff
for loose-liped boys
of limber means than us.

We go window shop, admire trinkets, mannequins.
I gaze but cannot touch, if I venture in, I bought it.
For now, I’ll just look, walk away.
Further ahead, near the overpass

Where concrete rumbles and steel frames unleash
night’s fury, where he takes you
For a kiss, a smoke. The wind kicks up,
through your knotted hair.

Walking through a decade of love, pains and
empty streets of fame, I look ahead, past garbage bins
stuffed past capacity to a rat’s delight,
feeding unnoticed behind Holiday Inn.
Cars zoom by on Route 17.

Red Shoes
Little girl, pretty white dress, tiny red shoes
run on soft, cushion grass,
learn life on concrete blues.

Are you living in the mood?
Running in the nude?

Armed with purple chalk, I leapt across
squares and numbers, pigtails
popping up and down. Voices were booming,
dishes clanging inside.

I mixed the salt and sugar shakers.

In her garden, I dart through snipped grass,
barreling around towering bushes, roses.
I race down rows of pavement.

She waters the tulip seeds.
They spring up magically,
taller than me.
The instant-grow kind.

Home-made dolls
Once
Aunt Angie from California made me a doll
with all the sugar and spice and nice things
that make little girls’ eyes light up
like sunshine.

First, she bought the foundation, the sewed
Shut, stuffed into shape mass
in all its off-white glory,
sinched at knees, elbows, hips, neck.

Then she dressed her in purple petticoats,
light blue dress, pink and yellow flowers,
rose and green ribbons.
She sewed on a dark brown yarn hair,
two shiny button eyes and a red line
of thread for a smile on a face as big as
a delicious chocolate chip cookie.

She added blusher, belonged to a previous generation
of women. I add my own.
I left her propped up by a window
caught in a downpour.
I got sick of her smile, neglected her.

Cheeks were stained in cool pink, smeared
nearly to her neck in cascades
matching her nappy ringlets, untied.
I dried her off, stripped her, washed her down
A bit with a white terry cloth face towel.
Damp.
And start a fresh face.