Valerie Loveland


Narrow lashes thicken with pills,
extensions, other decoys. Eyelids droop
from the weight. Lid exercises help.

They are the girliest thing I own.
I donít blink, I bat them. A flourish,
a dainty ruffle adorns the edges.

Tiny crescents flutter: Hello.
I also peek through them
while I pretend to sleep.

They shed so someone can carefully
wipe one away from a cheek; a test
to prove they can handle the delicate.

My cousin plucked hers out,
blamed them for her allergies.
I suspect she found out they grant wishes.

Valerie Loveland is the author of Reanimated, Somehow (Scrambler Books, 2009). To see more of her poetry, visit her website: She works as an optician apprentice in Acton, MA.

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