Finishing School

Emma Bolden

Couldn’t sugar. Couldn’t sweet right. Couldn’t rat-
comb, couldn’t tease the boys with a belt and a bra, Madonna

coned. Couldn’t talk lady. Couldn’t coo. Couldn’t bless

the heart of Jesus till he bleached down to Southern, blonde.
That season slick and sudden, every man was gold and greened

unringed women into rot. I watched fat diamonds dew

the girls’ fingers. Then they floated. Chiffoned, sherbet.
Loving like their mamas, like a good pack of bones.

Dogged Virginia slim in the bottom of my pocketbook.

Couldn’t magnolia, moon. Couldn’t sheath dress. A’blossomed
beneath the sick of shower and sweet each m’am said

would woman us. Couldn’t honey the tongue. Couldn’t sponge

with syrup the acid of a sentence held up for the savior’d
to sip on. Crossed them traintrackers. Sweat in the skirts.

I hung around till babies borrowed their bodies. Blued,

they hung by their tulles, a ring of bad roses throwing
flat notes into a dumpster. Sixteen satin’d. Twenty-one

a glove. No matter the norths or souths I prayed no

fine boy picked my back for his bullet, but I wasn’t a lady
in waiting. For what? Beer breath. Buckshot. Pissed

vinegar, chained the table on which I offered my wants

to the chair. Cornmealed. I toughed grits. Growled
moonshine. Catalogued the ladies like a Sears. Bought

myself a little square of green and squatted, toothed

and rifled. Rocked the porch till every nail
shook loose. I never walked their plank.