Marilyn, First and Last
As her world turned, Norma Jean Baker / Morgenstern
Became just ‘Marilyn,’ defying the odds that a poverty-stricken child would and
Could rise to outshine the greatest Hollywood icons of that, or any time since,
Dangerous Years, her first film, could have been the title of her childhood story, of
Everything she suffered, her mentally ill mother prone to homelessness, leaving her a
Foster child, abused and neglected, her only refuge the silver screen, soaking in the
Glitz and glamor,staying for the double-feature, scrutinizing other ways to live,
Hoping and praying for the day that grim reality would transform into lively
Imagination, the guise of being someone else entirely, creating a fascinating
Juxtaposition, the contrast between mousy line-worker and a devilish
Knockout with charm, emanating sex appeal- Marilyn projected herself forward,
Looking to plan an escape, she clung onto her neighbor, Johnny, like a lifeline,
Marrying him at sixteen, and even though older, he couldn’t control her, nor the
Nefarious intent that surrounded her body, men with arms outstretched,
Ostensibly to shelter, and to provide protection, all the while desiring to
Pummel her flesh with unwanted attention, fighting to love, then leave her,
Quenching their lust, abducting her body, leaving her heart untouched, never
Recognizing the brainy, powerful woman underneath the facade of
Skin, a mogul, controlling her own narrative, head tousled toward the camera,
Teasing, all while erecting an empire, fueled with blonde ambition and
Undercover genius, launching MMP, her own production company, destroying the
Villainous studio system that sought to own her, yes, she had agency, and yet…
When this girl, the one with the “Horizontal Walk,” a chimera in deep blue,
Xenia of every man’s fantasy, with her unquenchable
Zest for life died, she was naked, cyan-lipped, last in the can was The Misfits.
Pantoum For Dave, 1958-1981
I recall your shaded hair- chestnut and copper shine
Flecked with promise of all you could have been,
Tiny scar above your lip, a past I’d never known
Breaking the code you knew so well, you chose to dive alone.
Flecked with the promise of all you could have been,
Beat up guitar close at hand, pocket full of dread
Breaking the code you knew so well, you chose to dive alone.
I know you tried to call me twice, but I wasn’t home.
Beat up guitar close at hand, pocket full of dread
Telephone lines full of anguish, wondering where you’d been
You left a message for me twice, but I wasn’t home.
You were there to hold me up when I was on my own
Telephone lines of anguish, wondering where you’d been
Yesterday you’d shyly sung the verses that we’d wrote
You were there to hold me up when I was on my own.
With your perfect penmanship, you didn’t leave a note
Yesterday you’d shyly sung the verses that we wrote.
Tiny scar above your lip, a past I’d never known
With your perfect penmanship, you didn’t leave a note
Breaking the code you knew so well, you chose to dive alone.
Debbie Walker-Lass, (she/her) is a poet, collage artist, and writer living in Decatur, Georgia. Her work has appeared in Green Ink Poetry, The Ekphrastic Review, Punk Monk, Poetry Quarterly, and The Light Ekphrastic, among others. She is an avid Tybee Island beachcomber.