Bewildered, I sat in a sea of shoeboxes.

The salesgirls pressed their occupants upon me.

“How about JRM? Jared? Surely even you

can’t deny that Johnny Depp is hot.

Look how it fits, how it fits.”

 

“Sorry,” I said.  “I don’t wear stilettos.”

 

*

 

I do not love, I do not hate

upon my word I am not a screaming woman

I breathe, I do not hyperventilate

it’s unnatural in a girl my age.

 

(You need, cried the people in my closet, to grow some hormones.)

 

I went to a gathering to take tea.

The discourse took a foreign turn

The closet chattered

The shoeboxes shrieked

I drowned.

 

My fortune teller glowed in the dark.

She told me: “Your husband will be well-read

and intelligent.  He will also be

slightly wimpy.  I hope you don’t mind.”

 

“Oh,” said I.  “That’s nice.”

 

*

 

(Here follows a period in which

our protagonist goes to the movies

very often.)

 

“I’d like,” said my stiletto consultant, “to see you in love.”

“I’d like,” said I (without conviction) “to feel a bit of unique.”

“Well,” said she brightly, “how about you try the Schiaparelli? It’s a six-inch heel.”

“Blast,” said I.

 

You are in denial, cried the people in my closet.

You are aberrant.  For what is a girl without love?

A teenager without idol? A youth without crush?

You deny the maudlin ideals which are your calling

You deny your emancipation.

You are no ice queen, they said accusingly,

just a prude.

 

Anyway, they added shrewdly,

you’re always bringing him up, these days.

 

*

 

One day, ensconced in the familiarity

of the poetry section at the library

I borrowed an uncharacteristic book.

 

“Just because the surname’s the same as his,” complained my inner cynic.

“You don’t even like Irish poetry.”

 

*

 

Am I, am I, am I

lost

            to logic?

Say no, no, no,

not yet, not yet.

 

He is good-looking, I do admit it

but I am still too good for that sort of thing.

 

A sad attempt at Eliot, which doesn’t even come within miles of it.  Look out for the cameos from Melly and Michy.