The Red Belt

Diane Melby

Today I'm perusing the goods at Twice is Nice Thrift,

thinking about my mother’s belt—three inches

of polished leather and a quarter inch thick,

it lay coiled in the drawer of her cherry-wood dresser,

framed by white dime-store panties and pointy bras,

like a badge proving that she’d once been someone

other than my mother. It’s that same sorry story—

the one where war steals the boys,

grants women good jobs, then dismisses them

replaced by broken men. And I can barely stand it—

think of her tightening that belt, as red as an executive’s tie,

calves stretched firm in glossy pumps as she sprints

to catch the Manhattan bound train—take her place

in what she thought was the rest of her life.

Sometimes I would sneak into her room, wrap the belt

around me, press its steel tongue into my skin until

I felt I could be somebody too. After mother died

I argued with my sister. I said blood is blue

before it’s oxygenated, she said no it’s always red, as red

as mother’s belt and I recalled how mother taught me

to loop the strap between both fists, squeeze it to form a mouth,

give it a snap—make a sound loud enough

to crack down walls.