vogue

Stilted in the check-out line, fumbling with an infant
And 62 pounds of produce, 14 pounds of �green� household stuff
The bittersweet anguish of a senior ahead, stuffing a crumpled cheque
Into the cashier�s hands I sigh and study the racks beside me, sticky little fingers
Clumping my hair, prodding my lips, yanking at the bags under my eyes

There she is, Miss America, all teeth and eyes, watching me
Accusing me, asking me, �Who ARE you, you tired old woman of twenty-four?
�Where is your sugar �n� spice nail polish? Where are your
Full support undergarments, your maxipads with wings? What does your baby eat,
With no Enfalac in your cart? With no Gerber sweet peas and turkey?�

I try to stuff my ears with mental cotton, shield my eyes with imaginary
Eye-tightening cucumber; the old man ahead is groping in his wallet for identification
The baby grabs my breast and pierces the air around me with glee, heads turning
To look at us, his hand deep in my shirt, I smile the gloss-free smile and try to look motherly
Removing his hand and �tut-tut-tut�ing , avoiding the inquiry of the magazine

Her hair is long and glossy, frozen in a still-wind around her narrow face
The pages within her reek of perfume to lure women who want to lure men, our own
Sweet scents considered rank and crude; her breasts so round and almost touch
Her chin; her flat belly divided down the centre with a clean shallow line; her hips swelling over
The tight edge of her hugger jeans; I get the feeling she�s mocking me

I feel again that pang of disillusion and think about the Slimfast I hide deep
Behind the onions in the cupboard under the coffeemaker; about the 13 bottles of nail polish
Crammed into the bathroom drawer, untouched for lack of time and interest;
About the $45.00 bottle of Clinique moisturizer bleaching itself out in the bathroom window;
About the size 12 clothes I bought last month, as incentive.

She stares and stares, waiting for me to impulse buy that greasy flavoured lip gloss
Those expensive disposable razors with aloe moisturizing strips, that shiny box of peppermint
Tic-Tacs with a half calorie each; she smiles eternally, urging me, �Look at me,�
She says, �This is what you were meant to be,� and I look and remember the time I spent
Kneeling before the toilet, puking out the cheesecake, with her body on my mind.

The baby growls, and twists in my arms, his bored little hands grasping for the cabbage
I hold him closer and pat my un-washed hair, smoothing it out, watching the little old man totter
Away his transaction completed; I begin tiredly loading the groceries onto the belt,
My eyes roving over the lipgloss, the razors, the Tic-Tacs, the magazine covers, and suddenly
My hand snatches at them all, and piles them on top of the soggy lettuce.

Miss America looks smug, and the cashier is smiling to herself and I feel dazed
Somewhat dizzy; I feel the way my breasts sag against my torso, I feel the way my belly is
Straining to be released from my too-tight jeans, I feel how naked my make-up free
Face must look to the world, I feel how heavy my heart beats in my chest, with the deep awareness
That none of it will change the way I feel inside my soul.

�Do you have a Frequent Shoppers Club Card?� the cashier asks as she passes
The groceries over the scanner. I hear the question from far away, knowing I do have one,
But unable to get it from my pocket with the baby in my arms; I stare at her
Her eyes are blank with work, her hand reaches for the magazine, Miss America grinning in
Satisfaction; knowing as soon as I get home I�ll smear those perfume samples over me.

�Wait,� I tell her urgently, and she stops her mechanical movements, the magazine poised
Just a few inches from being scanned; and her face is shock as I snatch the papery bit of nothing
From her fingers and slam it back into the rack, as I cram the bloody lipgloss, the razors,
The Tic-Tacs, all back to the hell they came from, almost laughing with the knowledge that my
Lips shall remain dry, my legs hairy, my breath stinky, my skin flaky.

Seized with inspiration I toss about fifteen candy bars onto the moving belt,
Burying the fruit with sweetness and sugar, the stuff I had truly been craving, and I hear
Miss America gasping in disgust, hear her laments about breaking out in pimples,
About gaining another ten pounds, another inch and a half around my waist and arms, about
Never being able to wear that belly-shirt and those Daisy Dukes.

I start to laugh then, and the baby giggles and coos in my arms, and all the people
Waiting behind me look at me as if I�ve gone mad, and the cashier scans one candy bar, then
Another, trying to be aloof, as if this happened every day to her, and I laugh and
Laugh and cuddle my child suddenly feeling free and easy, loving the heavy softness of my flesh
The purity of my face, the bristle of my legs, and the scent of a woman.