Modern Maid
Joan of Arc works at the Gap.
Her armor, nearly invisible under
the florescent light, catches on the sweaters
she folds, so that cashmere threads
follow her everywhere, a crimson cape.
She can’t remember how she got here:
most days, can’t remember her name when she gets up,
but knows where her keys are,
and what bus to take to work.
God speaks to her sideways,
flickering reflections in the
napkin dispenser at the diner,
upside down when she licks
the ice cream clean from her spoon.
Joan sees pinions behind her when she uses the ATM.
There’s angels, mostly angry and scary,
often white, and always in her dreams.
They smell like straw and milk...
Joan is sixteen. She’s always sixteen.
She’s so blond her eyebrows disappear.
She has freckles and is serious,
chews off her lipstick.
She’ll heal you if you ask nice,
and go back behind the chinos with her.
Her name means "God is gracious."
Sometimes when she’s stacking the perfume
called heaven
she remembers this is true.
Raised by Wolves
What she remembers most about San Francisco
is the zoo, holding her father’s hand until he disappeared,
next to the polar bear’s cage.
The peacocks hopped on the picnic table
and stole her hot dog. Their screams
made her wince.
She and certain animals did not get along --
the geese dove for her again and again
at the petting zoo.
Her father posed her by the llama’s pen.
The llama leaned over the top rail
slow, quiet, and grabbed a
mouthful of her straw-colored hair.
Tugged until her scalp ripped.
She screamed and her father took
the picture.
She found it years later pinned to his dashboard,
thumbprinted, creased as if it had been handed over
and fondled by many.
Then she saw it -- her father liked pictures of her
crying. Her father.
The Bad Secretary
She weeps into your coffee; staples memos to her blouse.
She has acne; her lipstick smears. She breaks up with
her boyfriend every other weekend and makes you hear about it.
She is always twenty minutes late. She sometimes answers the phone with
a stunned silence, as if she’s forgotten not only where she works
and who she is, but what a phone is. She loses files. She erases files.
Her nails are so long she can’t type. She has carpal tunnel so she can’t type.
She shows up one Monday in a neck brace. She forgets to wear a bra.
She swears (a lot). She refuses to get you lunch. You find a voodoo doll of
yourself in her desk. She makes you hate her. She smells of cinnamon
and dog shit. When she wears a tank top, you swear you see the flutter of
wings around her shoulder blades. Your palm pilot melts in its cradle. Your
tie makes like a lobster and pinches your nose. Your titanium G-4 explodes.
You can’t stop yourself from putting your tongue in her mouth. She doesn’t wear
underwear. She doesn’t bathe. She makes you love her. She is your master.
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