Disengaged 

I wasn't allowed to live with "Larry"  
in the apartment above the Mambo Club
until we got married.  But it didn't seem polite
to ask when that would be:
mother said *never pressure a man.*

He wanted me to wear pretty things
and dance for the customers, 
show them what I was made of.

He bought me costumes and thought it was precious
that I refused to wear them.  I "modeled" one,
the least I could do, and he started tearing 
strips of masking tape with his teeth.  He stuck 
red balloons on my chilly polka-dot bikini and tummy.  
The customers could bust a balloon for a buck.

He had to bloody my nose that first night.  
I stared at the spotlight like it was God. 
Like it hated me.  Did my routines
on the stage and then on the floor, dancing 
through lit cigarettes jabbing 
at my balloons, white explosions stinging
my eyes, arms over head, spinning, 
trying to smile, men laughing about popping 
my cherry.  I thought they meant balloons, 
something plural.  

When they were all were busted, 
I ran in my room, tore the shrunken 
rubber off me and tried to change 
but my blouse stuck to me, 
everything stuck to me.

All I could think was *no more* 
but never made it past the kitchen.
He said he didn't like to hit me
but it sure felt like he did.

I laid my hand inside the mark
his had left on my cheek.
My palm cooled, absorbed
the rough red swell of his heat.

Then came flowers and milk
and soft kisses and tickles.
Lipstick and chocolate
and ribbons of lies.

Desperation has no memory.






copyright 1994 kathy jo kramer