“dear diary” and “I want a mom” by brooke finegold

2 poems

dear diary 

i’m starting to think about 
cottage cheese in grapefruit halves,
the ice blob in my mini fridge
melting into heavy, nippled breasts. 
i wonder if that’s what she looks like bent over.

it’s 3 am and we’re FaceTiming as usual, 
i’m asking if your new girlfriend has a happy trail,
i point the camera to the evidence,
this pouch, 
this place where i have been holding
all my resentment.

i look back at texts with my 
ex girlfriend to remember why we aren’t 
still having sex. 
the only people i want are
scorpios, alcoholics,
and irish catholics, 
freckle shouldered and running from something 
right into my arms.

it is a holding cell 
but i am the beach, 
i am the wind across the sand, 
i am the setting sun on a nippy night, 
sweatpants and flip flops, 
sweatshirts smelling like campfire,
wrists sticky with s’mores. 

i’m commodifying my childhood,
selling nostalgia,
my old t shirts, photo strips, 
selling naïveté by the baker’s dozen, 
remember when my bed was there? 

i’m starting to forget what attention feels like, 
i need boobs in my mouth like a diabetic needs insulin, 
shouldn’t it be easier for us to get what we need? 
shouldn’t it not cost us our livelihood?
shouldn’t we have another spokesperson besides nick jonas? 

i am in bed, high and dreaming about your wife,
being disappointed by the porn video 
uploaded 3 weeks ago with my two favorite starlets.
i can tell when the moans aren’t 
indicative of her true spirit.
i hate when she pretends for me.

be yourself! i know you! 
your big naturals and the small of your back, 
the way you toss your hair, 
i bet you like the strokes
and driving with the top down,
hollywood hills, 
matcha lemonade and white tennis shoes, 
you let the dog lick your sunglasses off your face laying in the grass,
golden retriever style,
wearing the sparkly kind of sunscreen and 
calling everybody baby.

put on that big t shirt you like and get in bed with me.
tell me all the ways your mom let you down,
all the ways your father made you
fall for me. 

---

I want a mom 

I want a mom who jumps on the trampoline and doesn't care if she pees.
I want a mom who rocks me to sleep in a pinstriped rocking chair,
singing about carnivals and painted horses. 

I want a mom who loves my body–
a mom with leg hair and cellulite and debt collectors and flat tires.
A mom with hair dye on the bath rub and paint on her overalls.
A mom who smokes weed on the screened-in porch with her girlfriends–
they laugh so hard they pee. 

I want a mom who bedazzles my ballet uniform
and licks her fingers when she burns them on the hot glue gun.
A mom who takes me by the hand and takes me somewhere I've never been. 
A mom who shares popcorn at movies and pours caramel m&m's in the box, 
throws it all over us when the bad guy jumps out from behind the car. 
A mom who mixes her bikini tops and bottoms and shows me how bodies work. 

I want a mom who gets a little tipsy and wears a shimmer gold cape to the bar. 
Who comes home with sticky high heels and gives me lipstick kisses. 
I want a mom who wants matching tattoos.
I want a mom who wants me exactly as I am. 
I want a mom that lasts forever. 

---

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BIO:

Brooke Finegold is a multidisciplinary artist, poet, comedian, and community event host who explores the sparkly facets of queerness, family, love and the body in her projects and writing. She is the writer for @gaydarshow, runs @lesbianhands, hosts the bi-weekly poetry salon Poetry is Gay at Singers and performs regularly at Union Hall, Q.E.D. and Bushwick Comedy Club. Find her on Instagram and Substack @ilikerainbows