Valerie Loveland


When someone asked my favorite color
when I was a kid, I would answer,

I have an affinity for crystal or frosted
spectacle frames. Every time
I talk the doctor into buying those frames they never sell.
Nobody wants invisible glasses.

Don't be distracted by my body underneath. I want you
to admire the pleats and ruffles I sewed.
The notions and trim are a little easier to see than the cloth.
All the clears don't exactly match each other.

The print on the fabric is called frost.
My jewelry is composed of air.

Why are you dressed like a window?
A shower curtain liner? A cream soda?
Why are you dressed like a cornea?

I apply sunscreen so ardently, I think
my veins become more and more prominent
but it is actually my skin translucing.

My skirt bells like an overturned glass. My engagement ring
like a faceted doorknob. My hair caught
in a bouffant like a jellyfish.

Valerie Loveland is the author of Reanimated, Somehow (Scrambler Books). Her poetry has appeared in Dzanc Book's anthology Best of the Web and at the Massachusetts Poetry Festival. She enjoys running, audio poetry and open courseware.

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