Beauty Mark

My aunt said I looked like Marilyn Monroe.

The same mole above the lip. It had to be that.

I didn’t have the curves yet, the voice, the smile.

But this was a later assessment, because I didn’t know

who she was talking about, couldn’t protest

that my hair has never been dyed platinum flash

and when I walk there is no jello on springs

and when I sing, the words don’t sound

like a strummed secret.

​

But I watched her movies closely, memorizing the overture

in How to Marry a Millionaire, played Some Like it Hot on repeat

durings road trips, my brother and I huddled

over the portable DVD player as brown California hills rushed by.

 

There is something sad I’ve given her after reading her biography.

I pretend I can see her yearning through Lorelai Lee.

The diamond tiara. The opera gloves. The comic timing.

 

There’s not much of a resemblance between us

—but there was a moment

I twirled and sent the hem of a circle skirt into a carnival of cartwheels.

Yes, I thought, finally—