Three Poems – Laura Jean Henebry

Mia Thermopolis Fooled Everyone Into Thinking She Was Ugly Because Her Hair Was Curly

Mia Thermopolis you are a blowout sell out!
Post make-over you is responsible for my mother
purchasing the as seen on TV, Revo Spin Brush.

When she used it on my head I became a goddess
shooting laser beams from my eyes! Felt like the marvelous X-Men
in their cartoon action-pose landing!

I could be a popular girl, with my popular girl sheen
immolating the retinas of men with the white, hot light emanating
from my slo-mo Jennifer’s Body strut down the hallway;
a curtain of sleek hair lifting from my shoulders —
unstoppable

for the low cost of 10 payments at 9.99 and
ninety minutes after every shower.

Mia Thermopolis didn’t it strike you as odd
when people commented about your curls? How frazzled,
how unmanageable, — can you believe it?
They want your hair straight and tidy. They want you
compliant and barbie-in-the-box pretty.

I cried when the whirring gears crunched my hair for the final time;
yanking clumps of snarls out from the clench of each toothy bristle.

Now, at thirty-two, when I come home from the salon
the back of my neck itches because

I am not myself if Mandy Moore isn’t calling me
a pathetic frizz-ball loser, or if Lara isn’t scoffing and calling my hair
a rat’s nest behind my back at lunch.

Mia Thermopolis I wish you kept your curls rabid. I wish you told Lilly to shut it. I wish you flew a middle finger to Genovia. I wish you skipped town with your Beatles try hard boyfriend and picked up the bass.

I wish you slept in Walmart parking lots; dining at Wawa and Sheetz after the nights of playing to a crowd of nine. I wish you experimented with acid on a beach. I wish you had a queer awakening in a hallway closet at a house party, and it didn’t leave you shaken.

Mia Thermopolis, in another world you were sure you were cool.

Friendship

after Chen Chen

is the shimmying
grin of a disco ball
moonwalking to
a Billie-Jean remix.
It’s too much body
glitter, and
sweat smearing
eyeliner. It’s glacier
freeze gatorade and
everclear in
the backseat of
an Uber.
Struts in a
borrowed miniskirt
and pleaser platforms;
stomps on
every sidewalk
like a catwalk. Holds
your hair back,
and keeps the stall’s
swing shut;
makes you
laugh mid-puke, turns
a bar bathroom into
an oasis. Friendship is
the shimmying disco
of grease
on a pizza slice
at 2:00 AM — with
hot sauce, and garlic,
with parm, and oregano.
Friendship is a
twilight waltz
in someone else’s
neighborhood, and
is the look-out while
peeing in someone else’s
bushes.
It’s switching out
heels when your
feet howl.
It’s coming home
with lilac pollen dusted
hands; face planting
on the mattress —
vowing to stay up,
promising we aren’t
that tired; ready
with a jar
to try and catch
the orange-pink limbo
of the sun.

I Hate You So Much I Wrote This Poem

I hate you so much I walked to the mechanic with tears blistering the corners of my eyes, and everyone, even the construction workers on that block were afraid of the haunt of my shadow. I hate you so much I sobbed in the middle stall toilet at work and when the automatic flushing sensor went off twice, I hated you for that too. I hate you so much I forgot to wear the waterproof mascara. I hate you so much my boss asked me if I was okay in that way. I hate you so much I let the wind whip my car around like a hot wheel on a careening loop-de-loop highway. I hate you so much I almost ran all three stop signs at rush hour. I hate you so much my parallel park job is all helter-skelter and two feet from the curb and I know I still hate you, because I didn’t fix shit. I hate you so much I brought home your preferred cigarettes — stomping out each lit cherry on my concrete stoop in front of the neighborhood kids. I hate you so much I turned down dinner. I hate you so much it’s making me dumb. I hate you so much I pick up that book I threw in disgust half a year ago and read it at once. I hate you so much I flip through fifty-two pages of porn before selecting one. I hate you so much I wonder if the guy in the porno is as kind as he is hung, or if there is someone that hates him like I hate you. I hate you so much I don’t even cum.

Laura Jean Henebry is a creative writer working on her first collection of poetry. She lives life at too high of a pitch, and often is writing well past an appropriate bed time. When not writing she is conjuring the ghosts of her most embarrassing moments and cuddling with her dogs. She resides in Troy, NY but longs for a cabin in the woods. She can be found on Instagram under the handle @betweenthelinesandspaces.