A Miniature
In my numb mind, a little leather jacket,
the sleeve no bigger than a thumb drive.
In that diminished instance,
I light a cigarette. I put on lipstick.
I’m a version of a self. I speak the truth.
As if speaking French. Haltingly.
Fast forward and it’s me asking air
to save me from the synaptic patterns
that dictate who I am alongside what I do
when under duress. I wear a red dress.
A coral neck scarf. A hand (not mine)
covers my mouth. Nature is never fair.
Someone sucks the air out of the room.
I am saying no more except to say
that the scale is tilted toward
accident. The accidental. The absolute is.
Copyright © 2020 by Mary Jo Bang. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on March 16, 2020 by the Academy of American Poets.
“‘A Miniature’ is more or less an ekphrastic poem. One of my favorite possessions is a small leather jacket, which measures 3 ½ inches by 2 ¾ inches at the shoulders, narrowing to two inches at the belted waist. I don’t remember where it came from but looking at it occasioned this poem, which ends in a lament for the fact that when a woman speaks up for herself, she can never control the outcome—and even a tough-girl leather jacket won’t save her.”
—Mary Jo Bang
Mary Jo Bang
Mary Jo Bang was born on October 22, 1946, in Waynesville, Missouri, and grew up in Ferguson, which is now a suburb of St. Louis. She received a BA and an MA in sociology from Northwestern University, a BA in photography from the Polytechnic of Central London, and an MFA in creative writing from Columbia University.