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      February 15, 2024CostumeJessica Moll

      Our game’s a cross between A Chorus Line
      and Fame. Rehearsals, here in our backyard.
      Pretend the lawn’s the stage. The tutu’s mine,
      but I let David pick a leotard.
      I’m ten, he’s five, he’s used to all my rules.
      He gets to be a girl, but has to choose
      a neutral name like “Chris.” Summer fog rolls
      in. We swirl our glitter scarves to music
      in our heads. He’s got it down, the girl
      pose: hips, hands. He’s not a boy. He won’t play
      out front, racing Big Wheels. Instead, he twirls
      barefoot with me. But what about the place
      my fingers found, underneath my clothes?
      The grass is cold. Plié. And point your toes.

      from #32 - Winter 2009

      Jessica Moll

      “Since I just wrote a sonnet yesterday, today I’d like to rest. My fingers ache from tapping syllables against the desk. I haven’t slept—the loud iambic tick’s a clock inside my head. I hate the task I give myself, of cramming my mind’s sprawl into the structure of a formal poem. I think the next time that a sonnet calls, I won’t answer. I’ll pretend I’m not home. But watch, tomorrow I’ll be riding down a pitted Oakland street, pedaling hard to get to work on time, and as I spin, I’ll feel the meter in my pulse and start to think in rhyme. You’ve had this kind of lover—as soon as you break up, you’re back together.”

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