a nice poem

for Lena Dunham

 

 

My, Lena, how you’ve grown,

& how proud your grandmother must feel,

yes? Do grandmothers still hold court

over members of the ‘cognitively different’ community

in your part of the country? Even passed-away ones?

Because most days, I still feel like lemon cake

that grew stale. Most days, I still feel like

Mario when he runs out of lives. Most days,

I think I’m running out of life, catching up

to the end of the film roll… Do you ever think

about your weight the way some people think

about baseball scores? Or analyze your

personality using a nutrition label?

I think you’re beautiful. I think

tiny living rooms & tiny dressersets

& tiny wooden armoires complement your cheekbones.

I think your heart is a vixen emerging from

a riverbank foxhole.