RE-VAMPED
BARBARA CONRAD

Being under the influence of dandelions
and other small things, I didn't know it then
but even at ten I wanted my mother bold.

Brassy sassy, drenched in spice
like her younger sister my aunt, who
that year came to live with us

wearing an Austin Healy convertible
and open-toed see-through sandals, exposing
shiny toenails red as my face

when she would coo and call me Sexy.
That year is why I now rewrite my mother
squeezing her twin bed tight

against my father's and re-shaping them
into one plump heart, prying open
their goodnight kisses, dressing her

with nouns that echo and verbs that quiver
like Jell-O, cherry-slivered, served
from a wide-mouth porcelain bowl,

white as winter flesh,
every bit of her
finally about dessert.