I like my cheap drugstore noodle soup.
I like it the color of blood,
Overwhelmed by dashes of
paprika, crushed cayenne peppers, and red hot chili powder.
I, the Polish girl, suck thick, maroon, lip-bending residue
off each of my fingers
after devouring a bag of Chicago-style hot chips.
I don’t choke, I cherish.
My dresses must fit snuggly around my curves.
I like them the color of fire trucks,
zooming by a busy street, packed with sweat-drenched men,
uniformed, just the way I like them,
marveling at the way this spicy dress hugs my stomach,
almost motherly, mildly plump,
the way the arch of my back gracefully swerves,
an ocean wave. The men stare.
Their lips will sting when they lick them,
wishing instead that they could do so
to my supple, young breasts.
As a child, I always thought
that the shower curtain mama picked
was the color of hell.
Ever since, I shower without it.
I thought that the devil lived inside.
But I believed in my guardian angel.
Anita Wota is a 2010 GirlSpeak editor.
