Today's poem is by Jessica Cuello

Beauty

I suspected beauty in myself, I broke the bathroom
sink trying to reach the mirror, longed for photos,
there were none. I was an observer of my own knees,
stroked my own thighs, my arms the same delicate
slope as the shell split open to reveal the whorl,
the tiny empty rooms shrinking into themselves.
I was beautiful to dogs, they bit me, they wanted
my flesh. One tore open my calf, a dog on a chain
broke free to nip me. They can smell your fear. So
stop fearing, the man said as his dog leapt on
his leash. The man choked him back. The beauty
in me could break a home by standing still or scare
a man by spitting milk into his lap. My cry could
rupture love. I wandered through a mother's house
to find a picture of my face, mine could crack
and split your mouth, break the frame, and it is so plain
to see, in the womb I was an egg that should have spread
its blood and thinned, ugliness thrust its way to me, a banal
fist and slap and now my form must be erased, and beauty
keeps attracting gropes, the Salvation Army clerk who thought
I was a thief and lifted up my shirt where the bare ribs
were and the skirt where she sought the necklace.
I had not stolen. I froze for any caress, any
glance. Rough like my origin. Yes, even if
it pinched, accused. My beauty was criminal,
it begged. It said Break my skin to make it seen.

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Copyright © 2024 Jessica Cuello All rights reserved
from Bennington Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission