Diana Darby ** "I V" ** Intravenous

Born Beautiful

I am putting together the past,
one photo at a time.
My mother in her red flannel dress and black Mary Janes,
pearls around her neck,
her hair rolled under,
face scrubbed fresh
beneath the Christmas tree.
Her sisters gathered round her,
dim examples by comparison.
In each photo,
my mother is the star,
the shining light,
the one a stranger would ask about
if looking.
Her dark hair,
their mousey blonde.
Her perfect shape,
their dowdy forms.
How jealous they must have been of her.
United by ugliness,
they were a two-headed monster
determined to trip her,
determined to make her fall.
Stealing allowances,
jealous of boyfriends,
waiting under couches
to see her stolen kisses.
I have no sympathy for them.
If they wanted to be mad at someone
blame the Gods,
or DNA,
but not my mother.
It was not her fault
the fates smiled down on her
and not them.
Why should she suffer for being beautiful?
It is the same with my sister and I.
She hates me now
and probably always has.