Long Lace Faces (an erasure poem)

We were asked, at We Write Poems (a Thursday poetry prompt) to use a snippet of Dorothy Miller's Richardson's "Pointed Roofs" and literally erase portions of text until we came up with our own, unique poem.

Ill write it out here, but seeing it in its original erasure form is also cool, and you can try the form for yourself. So here's my erasure intact:

http://www.wavepoetry.com/erasures/erasures.php?poemid=2445

And here's the poem. See other erasures at http://wewritepoems.wordpress.com

LONG LACE FACES
an Erasure, from Dorothy Miller Richardson's "Pointed Roofs"

high, plentiful long
lace faces--
collected sense of misery
lessons were dreadful experiences of
home
a little running
her own part swollen
her fingers
so weak
had
suddenly stiffened
at the end trembling.
dreadful movements. She heard nothing
till the end and as she stood up
she pushed angry way from the
clear red-hot mass of fire
green Chartreuse blue and cream.
stupid people made her play. How angry she had been
the forgotten guest she knew
poked all the girls
her heart trembling and burning eyes
thumping stiff
feelings faint
soundlessly until the thumping began again.
evenings, hoping afresh to be alone. But
she could not discover getting rid of
miserable nervous Mr. Strood
she did him credit, once
in a way that had thrilled her...
The tournament.

2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore (Sharp Little Pencil)

Frances by Night (the cruelty of gay-bashing)

Based on a person from my hometown, name changed for dignity's sake. No one should ever have to suffer because they live without lying about who they are.



FRANCES BY NIGHT

Frances took a lot of shit
back when cross-dressing was even more misunderstood
On Saturday nights, she’d dress to the nines
Scarves, handbag, nails done, bejeweled pumps
The Pink Cadillac was the only bar in town that would serve her
Sometimes she’d get bounced early for
flouncing around the married guys too much
They were undercover, like the CIA

This was back in the day
when you came in the back door and showed ID
Humiliating for closet cases, but worse for Frances
who had to show her license with her real name, Frank
It set her on edge every time, and she had a mouth on her

A few cocktails would set her right
She’d be fine ‘til closing time
If no prime escort took the bait
she’d wait as long as she could
before leaving for good (or for worse)

Fag bashers staked out the back door, on their beat
Ready to beat the crap out of “the little whore”
Yelling, “Frankie! Frankie!”
No cops were ever around that part of town
despite the shouts of the frantic rumble

She put up a good fight, that little queen
for all the mascara and cashmere, she was a scrapper
Her Georgette Klinger lipstick smeared on the knuckles
of some macho boy who really only wanted to touch her
but couldn’t admit it in front of his buddies

“Frankie,” they’d shout, “we’re coming for you”
“Boys,” she’d retort, “do come!
You need it more than I do”

© 2010 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil