Penelope

Penelope at the Beach
is pale and self-conscious in an ill-fitting black one-piece.
She would love to walk along the line between the wet sand and the dry,
but hates the feel of her thighs, sticky with salt.
She lies on a plain blue towel and reads trashy paperbacks
and doesn’t bother trying to look intellectual
with sand in her hair.

Penelope the Bitch
watches in the mirror for her green eyes to turn yellow with rage.
She wants to be told that she’s pretty when she’s angry,
but there is no one watching her.

Penelope the Bored
reads supermarket tabloids and watches Jerry Springer
and is amazed that the wives she sees can holler
at their deadbeat husbands about the sirens next door
without thinking about the ocean.

Penelope Driving
sings along with the radio’s cheesiest love songs.
She loves the interstate’s long, straight dashes
and avoids the back roads with their curvy,
spine-like lines because they are too human for her.
She doesn’t like passing houses with dogs in the yards
and overgrown gardens
and swing sets.

Penelope the Dyke
thinks there is nothing funnier looking
than a Cyclops.

Penelope the Kvetch
has whole-heartedly embraced the concept of Projected Jewish Guilt.
She calls Ulysses collect to ask him how he’s been and let him know that
she is not eating well
she has been sick with the flu
she has been sick with worry
the Chinese restaurant went out of business
it has rained for three weeks straight
she is afraid she’ll never see him again.
She listens to him sigh across the ocean
and tells him she will probably be dead by the time he gets home.

Penelope in the Morning
wakes up thinking about the arms that should be around her,
and slowly stretches her own arms above her head
to explore the empty air of her bedroom.
The edges of the shades curl up slightly
and let in just enough light to prevent
her from going back to sleep.
She turns her pillow over
and buries her face in its coolness,
convincing herself that a human
would be too hot.

Penelope Naked
lies on her bed and runs a hand across her lonely ribs.
She closes her eyes and wishes she weren’t alone
as her fingers dip across the dark forest of her pubic hair.
She imagines her eyelids being kissed
and opens them to look at the ceiling.
She wishes there were sweat on her sheets
and clothes on her floor
and nothing in her mind or body except hot blood,
rushing past her throbbing eardrums
and blocking out all the noise of her thoughts.

Penelope in Pearls
puts on bright red lipstick and feels glamorous.
She chats with small-town nobility
and smiles when paunchy,
middle-aged men are
unable to make eye contact.
She practices stepping out of her car
like a movie star;
uncrossing her legs
and slowly extending one foot
long before the rest of her emerges
but the effect is ruined because
she has to open the door for herself.

Penelope watching Television
tugs at the elastic band of her sweatpants
and munches on dry microwave popcorn.
She channel surfs until the batteries in the remote
run out, and then she is stuck watching
MTV and wishing she could care
about the real story of anyone
but herself.

Penelope on Vacation
throws caution to the wind and eats a donut.
She used to be resolute about
not letting herself go,
but now she wants to enjoy every
speck of sugar,
from the fudge frosting
to the vanilla custard.
She will lick the sugar
off her lips slowly,
enjoying the stickiness,
and know that it is impossible
to think about ships
when stuffed with this much sweetness.