| InterBoard Poetry Competition | |
ANNIE'S HAIR
Andrea DeFoe
(The Critical Poet)
My sister's hair,
white-blonde milkweed silk,
glides between plastic teeth.
I promise her I'll get it right.
I set curls to frame her face,
like the ones I gave her on prom night.
When she was sixteen and I was fourteen,
I was weedy, awkward, and invisible.
She made the boys stupid.
Daddy used to watch her
while she washed the dishes,
blonde ringlets damp with sweat.
He'd spit his chew in the sink,
wipe the brown dribble on his sleeve
and clasp her from behind.
She'd wash herself
until her skin looked sunburnt.
I'd fix her hair.
When she married Charlie
I gave her an elegant updo.
When he left her I polished her up
so she could find a new man.
She vowed years ago
that I'd have to outlive her,
because I was the only one who
could get it right.
She is tied into this chair,
so she won't flop over,
wearing a mask of foundation
on her face,
and on her wrists
to conceal the slits --
as if anyone could forget.
Comments from the judges (River Styx editors): “This poem seems tightly constructed and we enjoyed the surprise ending (which succeeded in creeping us all out), though some imagery (particularly stanza 3) may have skirted just this side of cliche.”
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