Jonbenét
Always picture the eyes. Like I’m in
the wings of a show that’s about to
open. I wear the blue dress I know I’ll get
catcalled in. Premeditate then forget.
For a while until the car stops at the red
light and the window rolls down
slowly. Or the broken window in the
basement. Or the blue lights of police
cars at Christmas in 1996 when I
wasn’t even born yet. You, in your cowboy hat, your
rhinestone tiara. What we can at
least determine is that someone is
probably lying. About the house and
the ransom and how much you enjoyed
or didn’t enjoy your mother’s
influence. As if it’s about whether you
enjoyed it. When he slid his fingers
under my new underwear is this good for
you? The desire to be touched against
the desire to touch. Maybe I’m
supposed to be opened. Delicate.
There’s a killer out there and yet you
are twirling. On the tapes. Dancing.
I’ve been watching and re-watching. I wasn’t even born yet. My mother put
me into dance classes at three years
old. Twirling on the tapes she shows at
Christmas. Someone is probably lying.
And I don’t feel real until I confirm my
existence on screen and watch myself
move. I worry I believe what everyone
tells me. That I’m small and quiet and
that you were betrayed, that you were
captivating in that white bed sheet.
Captivating in the dresses and the
makeup too. Eyes must have
lingered. Fault. Indication. Should have
known what would happen. Always
picture the eyes when I wear the
blue dress. When he slid his fingers under my new
underwear they look nice. After he
fucked me. Watched and re-watched
me. On and off. Something about the
DNA. And on the tapes I watch for
signs of guilt in faces of people I
don’t know. Either they did it or they
didn’t watch for the eyes. The
interviews and the commentary on how
you were dressed too old for your age
as if there’s a right age when you’re
ready to be devoured as if it mattered
what you wore in that white bed sheet. Gem McHaffey, Fall 2018
artwork by Maya Hayda