Taylor Kensel

UNDER MY PROM DRESS ARE


taped cleavage,
moles like movie stars,
colostomy bag like blown soldiers,
under my prom dress are

landmarks, detours, evidence of
months of four walls, of recycled air, scrubbed skin,
holes from lacing
stitchings, staples, bandages
flapping like flags. Salutations, World—

you’ll find beneath these weavings
a map to this threadbare life:
trace backwards with incisions, (miles
in years), trek along
the jagged range, stumble, recover,
solider &

cheers
to my skill at these hidings, here’s to this night
of breathing brand new, to drugs
for thoughts and drinks
for dancing. Sail now, Sailor
Jerry, Red Lipstick, Percocet—my crew comes
to abate.

If only my colostomy bag was helium filled,
I’d have a perfect view, ballooned,
nestled in a sea of streamers
above this pseudo Hollywood scene—
blown up and removed, puppeted
by nothing, bobbing,
uncharted and released
to live above reach.


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