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Susan Weaver
The Makeover
It’s late when I come in.
Most shelter residents have gone to bed,
but in the dining room Lena lights
a cigarette. She’s cut her hair
and colored it. I tell her I like it
with her freckles and snub nose.
“Always wanted to be a blonde,” she says.
“Anyways, if he sees me from the back,
he’ll never know it’s me.”
She’s taken a new name,
given one to Cammy too.
“I won’t use it till we’re on the train.
Some day, when she’s old enough,
I’ll tell her what her real name is.”
I think, “If you live so long”
and bite my lip. I don’t let on
I plan to hide my mattress
behind a desk tonight.