Most mondays, I wake up early to take my pretty
off: nail polish, Picasso painted eyes, remnants of
lipstick. I use a washrag for body paint & a sticky
roller for the glitter. I’m coming off & listening to
Joni Mitchell, saunter toilet-paper over my eyelids,
sing sweet to Corinne Bailey Rae. My toes wiggle &
live. My roommate asks why I do this, & I say, once
a week, I’m relearning a boy’s nightmares, I say, the
lessons we learn at six & ten years, are we not force-
taught again, 26, 43? The prayer plant on the table,
where my pretty hides each week like an ungoverned
mole, fans itself to flat to start the daily work of taking
in the sunlight. But sometimes, I don’t want the sun.
Sometimes, I wish the hot & near star would just
burn out, & hide me beneath its ashes. When I allow
myself, I envision the result, a dark, sunless planet,
a frigid, colorless day, & me, wearing red, wool
blankets as gowns all day long, lit only from the
streetlight of a fluorescent gas station. I buy a bag
of doritos in lace, skinny gloves. Most mondays,
I’m scared to leave fingerprints. Most mondays,
I wish the cops couldn’t identify the body, like
every sunday is lining itself up on display, see, one
of these days, when there’s a murder scene, they’ll
ID my prints, roll back the tape, watch my layers
extend three dollars beyond the register, & see a
winning smirk, like this transaction could save
my entire life.
Sam Herschel Wein lives in Chicago and specializes in aimless frolicking. His chapbook, Fruit Mansion (Split Lip Press, 2017) was the winner of the 2016 Turnbuckle Chapbook prize. He is the poetry editor for The Blueshift Journal, and runs a new journal, Underblong, with his best friend, Chen Chen. Recent work can be found in Hobart, Mojo, and Connotation Press, among others. He can be found at shmoowrites.com.