White Eyeliner to Hillary and other poems

Jun 30, 2018

Eight poems by the Assistant Professor of Creative Writing and Publishing at Missouri Western State University as part of World Poetry/Prose Portfolio [WPP], curated by Sudeep Sen

White Eyeliner to Hillary

The cocaine of makeup,

I turn an exhausted face

into a hopped-up, hyped-out

who’s-ready-to-party

mask. Just ask the stylist

who, after your flight

from L.A. to Brooklyn,

dabbed then smudged me

on the inner corners of your eyes.

At that night’s debate

you were brighter than

Bernie’s hair, your skin

the highest-watt porch light

on a twinkly street. Come

September, a cough

blazed your lungs, burning

hours off your sleep regimen;

the doctor gave you pills

and said pneumonia while

the stylist triple-traced me

along your lower eyelids.

And that’s how you arrived

at the 9/11 commemoration,

looking impossibly awake,

your fried, bloodshot eyes

not as noticeable as

my cheery chandelier hue.

It’s too bad nobody applied me

to your legs, which buckled,

or your tongue as men

helped you into a van.

To Chelsea’s apartment,

you croaked, while back

at the park, friends like me

wanted another swipe at you.

Brow Brush to Hillary

Your world’s a surplus of old, scruffy men—

furry-eared judges, diplomats whose teeth

match buttered popcorn, senators who spend

Mascara to Hillary

You don’t realize how good

you have it. To turn the heads

of Egyptian bachelors

in 4000 BC, women mashed

dried crocodile poop

with kohl and honey, a vile paste

into which they dipped Q Tip-shaped bones,

then coated their lashes

with one hand, the other

pinching their nose. In ancient Rome

women burned fruit pits and flower petals

then squeezed plump elderberries

over the ashes, determined despite

juice-stained fingers

and smoke-steeped hair

to paint sludge on their lashes.

You don’t appreciate how safe

I am now, not like in 1933

when a man invented

eyelash dye—coal tar sold in tubes

with little brushes; when a woman

in a hospital wailed that her eyes

were bonfires, it was too late,

her corneas

settling into blindness.

I could be newly waterproof,

its first recipe half-turpentine

so swimming pools reeked

of pine and women in them rubbed red,

itchy eyes. Lucky you

to be around in 2016

with my curvy, self-coating wand,

my tube with a silver ring on top

for scraping off excess liquid—

a perfect mixture of pigment,

wax and tiny fibers for thickening

your lashes. Yet minutes before a debate

you bat me away

to review your notes. Mr. Trump

and his entourage saunter

down the hall and you glimpse

his plain face, his untouched

pockmarks, his spider-veined cheeks.

Masked by his whistle, you whisper to a stylist

Does he know how good he has it?

Eye Shadow to Hillary

In the bag where I live, I brag

to new makeup that I used to touch

your eyelids, painting them taupe with an arc

of soft peach just below each eyebrow.

I describe the day I met you, when my owner,

your stylist, opened my rectangular lid

to reveal all twenty-four shades

and you pointed to my lightest corner

and said Those colors look good.

Powders and creams Ooh at your compliment.

I never tell them you said Nothing garish.

You may have thought my violet or burnt orange

was too risky for someone running for president,

or heard bold colors on pale eyelids

look too clownish;

the truth is, more than you

wearing the same corner of me every day,

I’m most proud of one Friday morning

at a black women’s symposium

when you shared a makeup room

with two other speakers.

Your stylist finished your face

an hour early, turned to the women

and said I’m a big fan. Can I do your makeup?

Then she dipped into my emerald,

cerulean, tangerine and fuchsia,

tickling parts of me for the first time,

robust shades that mellowed to soft glow,

contrasting beautifully against their dark skin.

When the crowd began chanting

your name, the makeup room emptied.

I never learned the black women’s names.

I dream of a day my owner works

for a presidential hopeful who’s not white

and more of my shades are dipped into,

her eyelids ushering in a rainbow.

Retexturizing Cream to Hillary

What I wanted to do was soften and feminize her look and make her someone women can totally relate to. —Kriss Soterion, makeup artist

When Kriss brought me to you, she’d just

mixed me up in her car — an impromptu blend

of oil, water and dye with a little acid

stirred in for burning off dried-up skin cells.

Like twins, we were born seconds apart —

me, a new cream, and you, radiant.

Kriss smeared me on creases around your eyes,

above the bridge of your nose

and beside the corners of your mouth

called crow’s feet and marionette lines —

cute names for hated wrinkles. This’ll sting,

she said. You asked if she meant me or aging.

When you took the stage that night in ’07,

my light-reflective properties made you glow

with a youth that rivaled Obama’s,

a calm that outdid Edwards’, a shine brighter

than Biden’s frosty comb-over. Emails

poured in to Kriss asking how she did it.

Others didn’t ask, assuming Botox

or plastic surgery. Soon speculation soared

to dangerous heights; women voters

Kriss wanted to like you saw in your taut face

their shortcomings, as familiar

as air, as habitual as cosmetic chemistry.

Lip Gloss to Hillary

I’m sorry that we did not win this election for the values we share and the vision we hold for our country. — Hillary Clinton, concession speech

Who knows why you decided, of all words,

to say sorry? History didn’t force

you to; men in your place, looking tired, hurt,

have groaned I regret and The failure’s mine, not yours

but never sorry — a word women drop

less if they’ve goofed than if they want to seem

non-threatening and soft. Like soda pop,

was sorry sweet refreshment to redeem

your image after such a heated race?

Or did you see what fans saw — a new world

where science, immigrants, health, a broad tax base

were gone — and took the blame like a good girl?

I can’t help thinking I was there as grease

to loosen your pursed lips, let sorry leak.

Scrunchie to Hillary

Looped around your ponytail,

I traveled the world looking

past your ear, over your shoulder.

Your standard Secretary greeting —

So nice to meet you — rang

like a well-worn bell, followed

by a handshake, cheek-kissing

or, my favorite, a bow; you dipped

and beyond lowered heads

I could see fiery red pagodas,

Taiwan’s record-tall skyscraper,

banana-laden boats dotting deltas.

You visited 112 countries,

more than any other Secretary,

and a ponytail was practical —

quick, no stylist necessary.

Before every landing, you piled

your long hair into one hand

then scooped me up, stretched out

my elastic middle, threaded hair

through me, twisting until I was snug.

Back home, Americans mocked

my casual white cotton, just as

they’ve mocked you forever.

Come, let’s return to Perth —

its gusty wind made you laugh

and reach back to press me closer.

Butterfly Clip to Hillary

Her less-than-perfect hair was not the issue, it was that she adorned it with a silver butterfly clip—an accessory most commonly worn by middle- and high- school girls. —Raquel Laneri, Forbes Magazine

The sun floats high

over Manhattan traffic—

if only your hair,

which you’ve grown out

in your new role

as Secretary of State,

could float

as far away;

shoulder-length strands

slip from behind your ears

and hang over your eyes

as you skim world news.

Here, try this,

your assistant says

and pulls me from her purse

where yesterday

her daughter

accidentally

dropped me

while borrowing lip gloss.

But the bad press

I got for headbands

and scrunchies…

you mutter and frown, rotating

me in your fingers

like a rotisserie chicken.

We’ve arrived,

your driver says

and pulls to the curb

of the United Nations

assembly building.

Quickly, you slide

your hands into the top

and sides of your hair,

gathering all but

long pieces in back,

then grip the half-

portion of hair

high and center

as your assistant

helps you open me—

pinching my unfurled,

spring-loaded

wings together

until they’re

back to back

and my ten tiny prongs

unclasp and expand.

You nestle me in

and around

the separated hair,

pat your liberated face,

then you’re out

of the car onto a flag-

edged sidewalk

into a lobby full of maroon

and oak furniture.

You spot a friend and wave,

his briefcase

knocking yours

as you hug.

I need a gift

for my girlfriend,

he says with an accent.

Who are your favorite

clothing designers?

The heavy doors

to the assembly hall

creak open

and men in suits

rush through them.

Would you ask

a man that question?

you say, barely smiling,

then take a step

toward the doors.

Once inside,

you find a seat

with other Americans

and a man on stage

booms Welcome,

world leaders.

What a title

you share with everyone

in this room,

such clout and power,

though I’ve seen

the embarrassing distractions

that come with

being a woman in your role.

My title, too,

promises more

than I actually am—

it’s nice to look

like a butterfly

and perch on heads,

but what good is this

existence if I can’t

fly, can’t glide

so freely in my body

it’s the only one I want?

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White Eyeliner to Hillary and other poems