“Hollywood’s a place where
they’ll pay you a thousand dollars for kiss,
and fifty cents for your soul.”
It took the embalmer three days to prepare your body.
He removed a half moon of flesh from the base
of your hairline; sutured it as tight as your corset
to reduce the postmortem swelling of your pretty little neck.
Those infamous breasts deflated as a result of the autopsy.
Under your favorite chartreuse dress, you were stuffed
like a doll with scraps of cotton.
Marilyn, you were our first wet dream, our first taste of sweat.
Your lips pursed like two virgins shivering in anticipation.
We knew you were a good kisser just by looking at you –
the kind of woman who made wives dig their nails
into the forearms of their husbands.
When did you start believing you looked better in photographs?
You were found naked in bed, clutching a telephone,
flat-line dial tone singing you to sleep.
We all pretended you were trying to call us.