| This Edition's Poetry |
Hot Work
The transvestites like scarves
although none of the women
in the shop wear them.
Not anymore.
The transvestites
are slippers-in, after closing,
arrive incognito through the back door
to emerge sweaty flowers.
It is hot work, being beautiful,
but they are willing
to make concessions, to
pay cash so their wives
cannot track their other lives.
They try on the wigs gathering
dust on the top shelves, the ones
the beauty-shop ladies spurn.
It is just them and us, although
they would like nothing more
than to mingle under the dryers,
to nibble donuts and discuss
the Enquirer.
My mother applies their make-up.
I feign sleep in the shampoo chair
sneaking peaks at the finished products:
wingless angels with five o’clock shadow,
tottering in circles between
the dryers and the styling chairs,
trying in that small space
to learn how to fly.
by Dr. Tiff Holland
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