In 5th Grade, Victoria Beckham Was Not Her Real Name

by Hillary Smith-Maddern

It was Posh, and I hungered 

for her ilium, its stiletto 

bite. Lips knit thin, 

I practiced her exercised 

Image credit: engin akyurt on Unsplash

indifference, all I would ever achieve 

of her, except a closet glutted 

with black clothes. Lord knows 

I craved her. Jet hair sharp 

cut her jaw. Body: bone 

carved and tan, more golden 

than McDonald's arches. 

I read somewhere she never ate anything 

except vegetables and steamed fish. 

No wonder her essence fused bored 

and sublime with no seam lines. 

I was an engorged 

ten-year-old, and she was 

line after line after long, lean line. My stomach

twisted every time I ate, the ache 

biting at my ribs. I stopped 

asking myself what I wanted, 

instead only wondering what she would do. 

My hands learned how to imitate 

her every angle, each movement the same flavor as

powerful and control and happiness 

is a finger at the base of your throat.

***

Hillary Smith-Maddern

Hillary Smith-Maddern is an educator whose work explores the intersections of feminism, queerness, and rage. She is a proud cat lady and an avid collector of neglected plants. When not writing, she can be found exploring obscure topics, hiking in the mountains, or passionately critiquing the patriarchy. Her poetry has appeared in Only Poems, Rogue Agent, and The Disappointed Housewife, among others. She lives in Western Massachusetts.