Today's poem is by Tara Flint Taylor

As A Girl I Was Taught To Not Want Cake
       

Opening the door, the boys wave me
to the edge of the bed, hungry,
over rows of cocaine on picture frame glass.

A voice in my head that's either Nixon or
a cartoon character from the eighties tells me
this is it, Public Enemy Number One.

Growing up with Nancy Reagan's Just Say No
I knew women with slogans could start a war
as easily as men. I'd been warned

about Wonder Woman stickers laced with LSD,
cigarettes dipped in embalming fluid, angel dust
that would shimmer anyone into a seizure.

A siren passes by the house. One of the boys
says something about the Doppler effect—the noise
grows lower as it moves farther away. Or is it closer?

A song from Beck's Mellow Gold plays on repeat.
He presses the skip/forward arrow on the stereo.
No one notices, no one complains.

The photo on the bed-stand came with
the frame—a girl in a cone-shaped hat
blowing out five candles on a cake,

mother on her left, eyebrows high in fake surprise,
mouth hinged open, a wooden marionette.
The camera flashes, the girl waits for the wick

to stop smoking, lips pursed
to lick lemon frosting, straight off
the waxy paraffin.

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Copyright © 2023 Tara Flint Taylor All rights reserved
from Bone Wishing
Slapering Hol Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission