Turtlenecks
Michelle Velarde

It’s December and I have nothing to wear—

Except turtlenecks.

Oh, how you loved to look at me.

You liked me in turtlenecks,

And bought me twelve last Christmas

To display my unattached face

For your viewer’s pleasure.

A pretty face exhibited on cashmere,

A sculpture in a wax museum.

“She looks so real!” visitors might say.

You nod, considering the delicate bone structure,

Subtle brown eye shadow,

Hair-sprayed, magazine-ish up-do.

You’d say “Yes, she is one of my favorites.

She has such a look of—” (Pause.)

“—yearning.”

Or, do I smile, yearningly at you from a Polaroid snapshot,

Stored in a Gucci shoebox with other neckless, bodiless, women

Wearing turtlenecks?

Do you take me out and kiss my cold, lip-linered lips,

Then put me in the dark again?

And I just smile, don’t I?

A couple cheeks dusted pink

Eyes wide like a Barbie doll’s.

Would you even remember me

If all you heard was my voice?