Molly Greer
The Pretty Girls
When my mother goes to the hospital,
there’s always a frantic search
for the right make up bag.
Not that pink bag – the pink bag with stripes.
I never learned how to wear make-up,
but when I was twelve,
I begged for permission to shave.
Still flat-chested with spangly legs,
all I wanted was to be one of those girls.
The boys notice the girls with shiny legs
much more than the ones who can outrun them.
I could be one of the girls
tanning on the asphalt during recess
without fear of the sun reflecting
off blond hairs on knobby knees.
I could be one of the pretty girls.
My legs look like a lumberjack’s now,
but I try my best to love them.
I pull pink unicorn socks over wiry hairs,
slide my feet into black combat boots.
Lumberjack/unicorns/boots is hard to stomach –
I’ll probably shave tonight.
In the hospital, my mother is beautiful.
We’re getting along today
and the afternoon light is just right.
She opens the pink striped bag,
paints her lips and lines her eyes.
As she fluffs her cheeks with blush
she confides in me and says,
when I’m dying, make sure you pluck my chin hairs.
there’s always a frantic search
for the right make up bag.
Not that pink bag – the pink bag with stripes.
I never learned how to wear make-up,
but when I was twelve,
I begged for permission to shave.
Still flat-chested with spangly legs,
all I wanted was to be one of those girls.
The boys notice the girls with shiny legs
much more than the ones who can outrun them.
I could be one of the girls
tanning on the asphalt during recess
without fear of the sun reflecting
off blond hairs on knobby knees.
I could be one of the pretty girls.
My legs look like a lumberjack’s now,
but I try my best to love them.
I pull pink unicorn socks over wiry hairs,
slide my feet into black combat boots.
Lumberjack/unicorns/boots is hard to stomach –
I’ll probably shave tonight.
In the hospital, my mother is beautiful.
We’re getting along today
and the afternoon light is just right.
She opens the pink striped bag,
paints her lips and lines her eyes.
As she fluffs her cheeks with blush
she confides in me and says,
when I’m dying, make sure you pluck my chin hairs.
Biography
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Molly Greer (she/her) lives in Maryland with her husband and two children. Recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in The American Journal of Poetry, Full House Literary, Sledgehammer Lit, and Outcast Press Poetry. You can find her on Twitter: @MKGreerPoetry.
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