And Then She Opened Her Mouth

I am eight. I want to be jeweled.

I want to be bold and wear hoops of gold
and love myself
like the beautiful girls do.

I am old enough now ÷ my mother says so.

Grandma wants to know ÷ am I sure.

I sit straight up in her chair and prepare
for the pinch. She readies my ears.

Rubs them with ice and then alcohol.
Harder than I had imagined
her fingers could touch me.
To numb me for the needle ÷
Grandma's hands have to hurt.

For two weeks I pull loops
of Vaselined string through my ear-lobes.
When I dab the red crust with alcohol
my ears catch fire.

I do not say a word.

For as long as I do not say a word
I am a beautiful child.
 

© Marylisa W. DeDomenicis 1997
           from Almost All Red