Today at work I am a vampire stewardess, but for Halloween tomorrow, for the costume contests at Bell’s Brewery and other Kalamazoo haunts … I will be a Stepford wife. My husband will be played by my beau who seems a bit too excited about controlling me with a remote and my being at his beck and call … bringing him beer and whatever else his heart may desire. Trying on my costume making sure I don’t need any other last-minute accessories, it is frightening how Stepford-esque I look. The flawless makeup my circa 1960s wavy bob haircut … eek. 100 strokes a day … a soft brush though the hair does do wonders … my dress equipped with petticoat and of course a hostess apron and heels. I am in need only now of a string of pearls, nylons, and a feather duster.
Thinking about this sudden idea to be a Stepford wife (we just came up with this last night) … I wonder about its odd connection to my current poetry collection, Eaten Heart that rarely leaves my mind these days. The poems are coming like ambulances in the middle of the night … many of them lately attesting to my feelings of being very Stepford-eque out of a fear of losing something, some people … the aiming to please, self-depreciating values that take over in moments like that. I think even this costume will play a role in my unapologetic confession, mostly by confessing with myself.
I was welcomed like a housewarming plant,
A fern both sad and wild in unrecognizable disbelief.
My mind was burning and folding like a rose,
An overused vulva while the neighbor coughed
Right outside my door. He wants to push my buttons
Again. Knocking at 4 am with a desperation
In his fist, wanting in like a scorned husband,
Knowing I am dandelion-weak and cannot say no.
Check back for photos of Don and I as the Stepford couple!