Goth Girl on the Late
The uniform: the standard, solid black.
The hair black, too, blacker than nature makes
and falling to the shoulder on the right,
cropped on the left. The piercings through the ear
look raw. The studded collar at the neck
is ersatz leather, and the studs are fakes
but draw me to the face: cheeks much too white
and eyes drawn narrow. Little threads of fear
needle me. Yet I know that all these things
the leather, the tattoos, the eyebrow rings
are charms to heal the wound of being young,
black magic from the mall in Bloomington.
Not nerd, not jock, not popular, alone,
she rides the eighty-four and wears them home.
If you've any comment on this poem, Maryann Corbett would be pleased to hear from you.