“Go to Your Room”
by Daisy Fried

In her observatory, her little red room,
the daughter sings “Do Ya Think I'm Sexy”
into her hairbrush. It's not true
what they're thinking about her. She's lying
across her bed, laughing at her mother
clanking something downstairs
to let everyone know who's angry
and right. Turn down the music! The daughter
fills her mouth with 17 Big Red sticks
from a 24-pack, eats pretzels too, mixing in
salt and crumbs. Turn down the music!
Sunlight gapes into the room.
 
The daughter belly down, stomach
muscles tight, head hanging
off the bed-edge, arms straight out
before her. Turn down the music!
Eight blue glass marbles between
her prehensile toes, one
marble between each two. She
claps her foot-soles, clicking
the marbles, little worlds,
together. She turns down
the music, writes “lassitude” in
the dust on the radio.
 
The daughter eats icing with her
finger from a bowl on her lap:
Powdered sugar, margarine, vanilla.
She made it herself from a
recipe on the box. There are escapes and
they are true things.
Mother, that ass, doesn't know.
                                                  Sun
blasts the curtains open like legs.

The Ontario Review, Inc. #64