Laura Plaster holds a Masters in Applied Theatre from the City University of New York. When she is not enjoying the parks of Brooklyn with her toddler son, she works with junior high students creating original theatre based on the issues and themes that are important to them. And then, in whatever spare time is left, she writes poems about the issues and themes that are important to her; mainly, identity, faith, and transformation.
The picture my friend took of me in that red
maillot suit comes to mind, and pretending
to be embarrassed when it circulated the bus
full of classmates. The first time I saw
myself and thought “sexy” before thinking
Or the one of me bowling, squatting
over the ball as if I birthed it before
heaving it down the lane. It revealed
the true nature of my behind, startling
to see it relaxing there below my back,
above my pale thighs like it belonged.
The treachery of images: this is not my ass.
Or, the high school graduation photos showing
I’ve become taller than my tall mother,
which must mean I’m tall and didn’t know it;
or, seeing that my body, particularly the lean
of my shoulder, still wanted to be with Scott
in the picture with the fancy chickens
at the gas station in Delaware.
Then there’s me and Theo posed
on the front steps for a first birthday
shot and I tell my husband. “what
a great photo,” and he points
to my face and says, “You’re blinking.”
I realize I only looked at the happy baby
before voicing my approval.
Later I take my time in the bathroom and try
to woo my arms, legs and interloping ass
back into some sort of marriage with my mind,
try to feel some of the old heat that came
when we first noticed that we do
and do not belong together.