Kate Moss
Inspired by William Brewer’s Anthony Bourdain
I used to press my face against
display window glass, absorbed
in the
mannequins’
world. I yearned for
unmelting snowflakes
peppered on mink
coats, the cold
not affecting me
at all. I imagined that’s what
life in New York
or anywhere else besides home
was like. No muddy slush
like the kind my feet created
every time
I stepped outside. For them, winter
meant presents
wrapped in gold
corsets, shrinking their waists
into ivory husks.
Rare, something worth
killing for
for their power to transform
stifling summers into
occasions for sheer cotton beachwear
that exposed their
ribs,
perfectly lined wire hangers,
like the ones spilling
out of my closet. The ones
surrounding my reflection
in the mirror.
I could never dance alone,
so I let my
skeleton
out of the
closet and tied my wiry
shadow to my feet as I
cut
calories and pages
from magazines.
Formed friendships with
photos of runway models, Calvin Klein, and
Kate Moss.
Kept them close
with shakily pasted
duct tape
and sweat from
soccer practice. I wanted to
carve out my ribs
and bend them into
elegant ivory hangers
like the ones I pictured
in her closet. But
I could only
suck in air
to replicate
the sunken quality
of her cheeks
and repeat, “Nothing
tastes as good as skinny
feels.”
and burnt bottles
of maple syrup and
clumps of fallen hair
at the altar.
But when I
visited the Louvre and saw
the gods in person
I was disappointed.
I realized
I could touch them
with ashen hands,
that their bodies were
as fleshy as mine and that
display glass is just
a facade
of the divine.
Why did Aphrodite choose
to have a face
when she could have
been featureless?
Why feel human
emotion when she could feel
nothing
at all?
Reese Bentzinger is a poet based in St. Louis, Missouri.
The Marbled Sigh 