Elsa Is Not A Girl She Is A Girl

 

Elsa is not a girl she is a girl

fashioned from sticks and whale blubber, paper

tigers that with one poof fall away. Worldly

she passes through society like a ginger

cat stalking the moonlight. No one can see

who she isnít. No one can read her at all.

There is something geometric about her. She

is made like macramť, one knot enthralled

by another. Remove all her plums and

she is nothing like temptation. Cut out

her lungs, veins spring like rubber bands,

the pleural cavity echoing like doubt.

Cut out her heart, that giant cherry pit

and letís see what she does without it.

 



Elsa, Itís Too Tempting To Complain You

 

Elsa, itís too tempting to complain you

receive too much attention. If you had

a younger sister she would commiserate

by eating cake and getting her hair dyed.

If you had an older sister she would

become a nun. If you had two sisters

they would slice off the heel of your foot until

blood streamed out of your shoe. The danger is

not in the constructing, Elsa, itís in

the listening. Foolish to think we can enact

change. All we can do is erect symbols

to stand in as we run away. Iíll flatten

my hair and where do my tears go. I

replaced you with another just like you.

And in the end you are who I wake up to.

 



Then Elsa Gave Birth Like That

 

First Elsa gave birth with a mask on her

face and a fashionable doctor urging

her to push, push. Then Elsa gave birth in

a room filled with tuberoses blooming

effusively to mask the smell of childbirth.

Then Elsa gave birth to a boy and a

girl and they were sent away to

create history with five loaves of

peasant bread. Then Elsa gave birth like that

elephant in Bali who thought she had

lost her baby and kicked it and kicked it

because she thought it was dead. Then Elsa

gave birth to vines and tubers, wild curling

and dense knots with a spray of hair. Then Elsa

 



Elsa You Swore Even On Your Deathbed

 

Elsa you swore even on your deathbedó

other girls we might not believe but Elsa

you are extraordinary poems. Like a

series of bobby pins in an updo.

But even if you loved him. Even if

he loved you. Elsa, I had so much fun

dancing in Spain I might have never come

back. Their eyes on us made me a princess.

His chest and I wanted to love him. I

ate tortillas and olives. I tried on

three swimsuits in the airport. I drank two

glasses of water. I missed you and I

missed you. I love you and it is awful.

When I left they were dyeing eggs in the kitchen.


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 Angela Veronica Wong is the author of the full-length poetry collection how to survive a hotel fire (Coconut Books 2012). She lives in Manhattan and on the internet at www.angelaveronicawong.com.