A. Prevett

Are you there, Saoirse Ronan? It’s me,

the joke. I was hoping
maybe you could teach me
something about fashion, fashioning.
As in: I have a date and I need an ascot that will scream
THE ROBINS ARE BACK! or at least YES I REFUSE IT,
THE SOFT CLICK OF THE LIGHT.
I thought you might be able to point me in the right
femininity, make me okay with not loving myself enough
in a skirt. I thought we could be like Rihanna and Skaja,
okay & not okay, together in a cycle.[1]
I’m sorry, Saoirse. This was supposed to be something more.
But I can’t help being as tactful as a cartoon piano
falling from a cartoon window onto a cartoon girl
and I’m her shoes, little black smudges. Not pretty,
but at least sensible. Some people prefer sensible, you know.
Or they prefer hard yolks to runny or
little women to jokes. What I’m saying is that I love you
but I can’t be you. I can’t be anyone at all.

[1] Borrowed from Emily Skaja’s “March is March”