Read Neon Literary Magazine #36 Page 6

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  Mannequin

   

  "Mannequin" first appeared in Coney Island And Other Places.

   

  You fall apart most in the early evening, aquamarine eyes peeking out from under black lashes,

  no breath, no beating heart. You are wordless, terse, hand on hip.

   

  After sunset, the streets are quieter. You tumble, upsetting a watering can. There is no water,

  only air conditioning behind smudged windows.

   

  Your wig is askew and your top slips below your breast, reveals half of your nipple-less bosom.

  Men heading home from work eye your DD bosom, remember you later.

   

  Someone took the trouble to paint your toes, paint some scarlet on your caramel skin.

  Someone belted up your dress, pinned fabric creases on the curve of your back, extended your

  hand.

   

  Others like you are holding purses between glued together fingers, shopping in place, smiling

  like Stepford Wives. Some are playing tennis without a ball, reading Chaucer, spending whole

  evenings playing board games with perfect children.

   

  Others, older, look vacantly from fading eyes, faces with no lines, tanned beneath tangled horse

  hair wigs. Some fall over behind smudged glass, a few are carried over the shoulders of men,

  home to the boroughs.

   

  Others may have pins stuck in their hearts, their crotches, their concave stomachs. They may

  break apart: arms, hands, chest detaching for ease of manipulation. They won’t ever cry.

   

  You and the others like you, you bear blank palms that tell no future. You are bodies that turn

  over helplessly in the arms of window artists, clothes makers, men, kneading you like bread.

  You fall apart most in the early evening.