The Little Gold Moth That Died in the Palm of My Hand by Julie Kim Shavin

I am not a silent poet

In that rotunda of mirrors in upscale store, communal dressing room of no doors but to enter and exit – and with all those women, consider the adolescent, pimple-pocked girl, feckless, silent-screaming to flee the indecent tenth ring of near-naked all around: the stripped, those faces, those hips and other places. Scrawny body among the ungowned endowed, groomed and adorned divas, the pathetic skin, bones and just-budding breasts of teendom, and telling her no, please no, not like this. No skinny stick of girl at this training bar, sic, among the others in their battalion bras and translucent panties thorough which swam their wanton womanhood….mortification of endless mirror, mirror mirror on the wall, who is the barest, wariest of all? how it takes a village to raise an outcast, agoraphobe, introvert, paranoiac. Take my eyes from the future this store is selling. Down to the jaw of heart…

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