Ceremony by Joy Surles

To me she looks like Macy’s big floats,
the balloon-headed kind, bloated,
nightmarish with those breasts
in her white dress.
My memory of her is deep and girlish:
our naked Barbies humping
shameless, lesbian in backyard sand,
her yellow vomit across my third-grade coat,
imaginary menstrual cramps
and pretend stained panties,
delighted masturbatory displays
of our new-grown pubic beards,
peeing like boys behind the tobacco barn.
My memory is of ourselves as small
as her flower girl,
whose lips hold back a giggle
as she struggles with the crumpled rose petals
she must toss on the solemn red carpet,
her hair white and wreathed in baby’s breath,
her body warm and clean in her little dress.
I think of virgin sacrifice.
She’s as small as the baby hog
roasting outside for our feasting,
ripped open down the middle, succulent,
squirted all over with local vinegar,
our own special flavor.