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Vickie Lynn / Anna Nicole
Renee St. Louis
In death, she is seen
everywhere, every picture
strangely damning,
as if excess of image destined
her to expire. Each photo reeks
of exploitation, denied depth
at every turn even now. Playmate
pictorials and tabloid tearjerkers
aren’t made to last and perhaps
that is the real and lasting
tragedy of this story. Painting
herself in images of another,
also not long for this life,
pretty girl becomes iconic pose,
bombshell, quaking in the
aftermath of her own abjected
neutron - object power.
She accomplishes nothing,
sees nothing, processes nothing
beyond the yearning, always, for more
love, sex, pictures, desires,
food, friends, dreams, hope.
Forty years of feminism fuels
four extra years of feminine wiles--
freedom apparently means losing
weight, sleep, and self, but making
it almost to forty.
Who would be so damned
dumb, wanting to live as the dead,
sculpting self to emerge as
butterfly, but one already pinned?
Marilyn too died drunk, drugged,
dragged through the wreck of heroic
whoredom. Accidental fulfillment
of prophesy put two women
lacking in irony, but alike in
shame, in the hands of the same petty
pimp who would make a fortune
selling her sex and denying her soul.
Somehow, we are meant to be comforted
by the claim that while one was tragic,
a lost and broken dreaming doll possessed
by none but loved by many, Vickie
was nothing more than tissue,
window dressing surrounding the empty
box that was her only
gift.