Look, you’d never mistake me for modest
so why don’t I lift my flowered skirt?
Not even an ankle showing,
but I’d paint my blood
all over this pinche town.
You don’t want to know. And the leg
isn’t the worst of it, but I tell you,
you don’t want to know.
I’ve set the table with flowers,
so come. Sit down, you’ve got the back for it.
It’s my birthday. The monkey won’t bite.
Tell me about beauty, comrade. Tell me
why I’m three times cursed, why the callas
won’t bloom for me.
Listen, this blue house
is full to bursting, and the flowers won’t last.
Dance with me, I can still dance,
or anyway I am going to. Let the flowers
fall out of my hair. Let the monkey
chase us. Let the paint dry.
(Today’s prompt was to write a dramatic monologue/persona poem, a poem as somebody else. Do you know the persona is?)