Sometimes I Feel Sorry for the Clothes I Buy
but never wear, the ones I double back for and pluck
from the rack on impulse, that I smuggle into dressing
rooms in my search for something that looks like anyone
but me, or who I could be if I was braver
with fewer fucks to give. The ones I take home
to never leave my bedroom, Rapunzels in my tower.
The blazer with the tag hanging from its sleeve
like a garter that should long be ripped off,
the one that turns my black pants into a suit if only
I’d let it. The blue tube of lipstick that touches
my lips when no one else is around, my secret
girl, my bruised lady of the night. The loudmouth
jumpsuit tight enough to tell every curve, backless
except for strips like guitar strings begging
for someone to strum them. The black top
that shows a whisper of stomach with slits
in the sleeves. The men’s button-down I fasten
all the way up, too snug on my hips, my body
too woman in its embrace. These clothes deserve
to know the heat of a body, to be worn
out, not just used for practice as I finger
their fabric. They lie on my bed like French girls
saying, Don’t paint me unless you are going to take me
to dinner or a movie or dancing or hell, even a drive.
Don’t take your picture with me if you’re just going
to delete it before anyone sees. I dare you:
Be this woman you keep
pretending to be.
My Grandmother Gives Me Her Approval Nine Years After Her Death
After my grandfather died, we walked through the house-
turned-museum of my grandparents’ life together, relics
from every drawer and closet pulled out for inspection. My dad
called me into the dining room, pointed at the gold-rimmed
plates displayed in the glass cabinet next to what was left
of their wedding china and more cut-glass than anyone knew
what to do with. The plates had scenes of Victorian women draped
across furniture and each other painted in the middle, little cherubs
surrounding them with harps. Your aunt looked these up. They’re called
Lesbian Plates, my dad said in a hushed voice. I’m sure your grandmother
had no idea what she was buying when she got these, but we thought
you may want them.
All the Closeted Characters From My Childhood March in a Pride Parade
Scout skates with her roller-derby team. Tattooed
arms burst out of her Dyke tank top, her knees bruised
like summers blustering through Maycomb. Dumbledore
hands out flyers for the Queer Book Club, smiles over
his half-moon spectacles, his beard glittering. Mercutio
walks on stilts in a crop top and wings, makeup flawless,
a tattoo with the initials RM barely visible above his heart.
Mulan holds a sign that says Non-Binary is Beautiful, their hair
shaved on the sides. Nancy Drew drives her blue convertible,
Come to My Window turned all the way up. I sing along
and wave – they are the crew I always wanted.
Here, I am the child I could have been.
Some days are hard – friends avoid me, my parents’
flustered confusion. But there is also beauty:
My first kiss with a girl at summer camp, our lips
two sparks in the night, instead of with the boy
who silenced my mouth with his. My first heartbreak
real, driving by my ex's cry-singing along
to Tegan and Sara, instead of the hollow ache,
my heart a match no man could light.
My wife is not the first woman
I will let myself love. I am still bruised
but in different ways. Here the world is filled
with possibilities. Here I see them, am waving
as they pass, mirrors creating a kaleidoscope
of reflections until I can see
myself.
And You Can Use My Skin/To Bury Secrets In
Title taken from Fiona Apple’s song, I Know
The first time I use a menstrual cup
and am uncertain if it is in right
you reach inside me, your fingers
circling where they’d been
so many times before, and I know
this is intimacy. My body, so comfortable
in your hands, your hands, so comfortable
in my body and I didn’t know
love could be like this, like a car ride
singing along to the same Fiona Apple album,
the one that soundtracked our sadness
years before we met, that it could be a song
I sang alone once, now, with someone else
who has learned every word
of my body, who is not afraid
to reach inside me.
To touch
every part.
Caroline Earleywine teaches high school English in Central Arkansas where she tries to convince teenagers that poetry is actually cool. She was a semifinalist for Nimrod’s 2018 Pablo Neruda Prize for Poetry and for the 2019 Vinyl 45s Chapbook Contest. She was also a finalist for the 2019 Write Bloody Publishing Contest. Her work can be found in Glass: A Journal of Poetry, The Legendary, Nailed Magazine, and elsewhere. Her chapbook, Lesbian Fashion Struggles, is forthcoming from Sibling Rivalry Press. She has an MFA from Queens University in Charlotte and lives in Little Rock with her wife and two dogs.