March 4, 2017Marilyn Monroe
She was origami—flesh like onion skin—
creases etched deep then deeper, bones
became paper, marrow like cellophane, folded
smaller, smaller until she hid from herself.
Creases deeper now, tighter, breathe,
she was claustrophobic buried beneath
bottles of Redisol, until she hid from herself.
Then dissolved like snow on hot asphalt.
She was claustrophobic, pressed between
celluloid and drawn with lipstick, until
she dissolved like snow sinking farther and
farther into the filtered black and white photos.
She was shaped between fingers beautifully
sculpted until she was the consistency of smoke,
lighter than air, until she fell farther and farther until
her ghost of Nembutal and champagne lay
beautifully sculpted on the floor. Wilted like
wisteria on the hardwood, blond hair fanned
around her head. Nembutal and champagne like a ghost
on her nightstand, illuminated by lamp light.
It’s lighter there. Lying on the hardwood floor, she
became paper, marrow like cellophane
her skin illuminated by lamp light. Crumpled
beneath the weight of her own palms
She was origami.
from 2017 RYPA