Man, I could be a Hitchcock blonde. I’ll have shades of white gloves lined up like criminals
on my dresser, wear them when I cup a man’s face in my hands and hiss, Believe me.
Hitchcock blondes survive in the wild due to mirrors, and lips so red they stain sheets,
ties, love letters and breakup notes left on the table under the daisies next to the noose.
When I brush my hair I will be able to see my attacker out the corner of my vanity,
but since it’s a false setup, he is now my lover, we’ll have a picnic where I feed him
secret sandwiches on stiff stationery bread with Dior spread, straighten his lapel,
and sigh in his ear, Let’s go watch blah people through the binoculars.
He’ll stay up late drinking with cigarettes and undone ties, troubled by not knowing my
true story: How I grew up on a farm in Michigan where my father slaughtered pigs,
how my brother Theodore was oddly quiet and built bird houses. He won’t know the tired smile
my mother would give after she broke the necks of chickens I named. He’ll never know
how Hitchcock saw me in a Sears ad for dishwashers wearing my best oh, my! face,
my tricksy mmm face and flew in through my window, perched himself on my mantle