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Tag Archives: Brittany Fonte
Your memory is raw silk, soy milk, still. With nubs like nails, it rubs. Hard—that one spot in my crooked elbow. With teeth like a saw. It halts something once just hindered by bated breath, now folding, frail. You are … Continue reading
Tiny tabs hold my curves, slight curves, slim hips so much like boys’ lines lulled into glossy glamour pics. I pretend I live in the Penny’s Christmas catalogue all year long, dressed in summer-bored-child-couture. You clap your hands because you … Continue reading
I was three in 1980. Ronald Reagan, royal, brandished his costume sword against your fellated film: Corcoran. Even dead, your flash work flanked a 17th Street façade, just steps from DuPont Circle circa White, and Milk. Congress held your hell-bent … Continue reading
I was “excitement” in 1985; my earrings earned me more than my share of animated applause and at least my piece of fifteen-minute (three-year) fame. This was the hologram I projected, profiting from an advertising angle aimed at not-yet-teen girls … Continue reading
I was thirteen, altogether too green, at the top of suburban crystal stairs, maybe fifteen feet up in middle-class air. Dangling Hughes. My feet were braced against a splintering handrail, waiting (wanting?) for that one, maternal shove. Peacemaking doves had … Continue reading
Two mismatched, not-yet-menstruating pelvises mediated by a pinpricked throw pillow: Long Island, New York. There is a horror film reflecting on one light, one dark, both horizontal. There is a thin layer of playground silt and shame, too, for what has … Continue reading