Bookworm Goddess
You sang Happy Birthday
to Kennedy and everyone loved
you or did they?
Platinum blonde enchantress,
bookworm goddess who wanted
to blow out the universe?
We were never told your true story
when they programmed us to be sexy,
play dull designated characters.
Never the in between or outside roles.
Never to be thinkers, questioners—
cerebral rebels with pencil, pen, or keyboard.
You found yourself on bookshelves,
scribbled poems with Joyce, Proust, Hemingway.
Your Norma Jean face writhed in conflict,
and who were we to critique
when beauty had roots in imperfection,
and judgmental eyes saw what they wanted
to see, never in agreement.
But we never noticed that back then.
Only a platinum blonde enchantress
whose alleged suicide ended dilemma.
The pill bottle’s silence left us guessing—
too many still thrive on gossip.