It’s not that they are hiding—
it’s more that they know
the power of a red dress.
Between slabs of red sandstone,
the tiny yellow green flowers
of the desert paintbrush
decorate themselves
with bright red bracts,
colorful flame-like spears
that attract butterflies,
hummingbirds and bees.
It’s what we do to survive,
those of us born plain,
those of us otherwise ignored.
I think of the homely girl I was
who wanted to wear
gold combs in her hair
to the middle school dance,
as if something shiny and bright
might attract the honey boys.
I want to go back to that gym
with its streamers and balloons
and take the gold combs
out of her mousy brown hair
and tell her the brightest parts of her
are inside. I want to tell her
that being a small green
and yellow flower
will serve her.
I want her to know
that a day will come
when she’ll walk in the desert
and feel so at one
with the cliffs and the scrub brush,
the lichen and the Mormon tea,
and that in that moment
when she loses her sense of herself
and merges with slickrock
and paintbrush and sky
it is then she will be most beautiful.
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