Lament in the Style of Monica Lewinsky’s Blue Dress
Where do you suppose she keeps it?
Tucked away in the back of her closet
next to the unworn J.Crew wedding dress,
for those of us feeling sentimental,
or for the rest of us who don’t give a fuck,
or at the very least who don’t remember,
maybe she torched it, a bonfire fueled
by partisanship, as the twentieth century
smoldered. Either way, she owned it,
never sold the rights to the sex museum
on the Vegas Strip, or wrapped it up
in newsprint and left it on the steps
of Congress. No sense in crying
anymore. Even the hangers are lonely.
Self-Portrait as Cindy Sherman’s Instagram Account
And why not Sherman herself, you ask?
Because in this instance, the inclusion
of social media denotes a postmodern
approach to self-portraiture, a Baudrillardian
hall of mirrors in which the self is projected
against a million anonymous eyes, all hungry
for a taste of her. How will she deform
herself next? Will she sport a new prosthetic
chin, her hair stand on end, electrocuted?
A Dr. Frankenstein in the lab with herself.
A million followers, and not one will ever
know her—nipped, tucked, and bruised beyond
all recognition. Das Umheimliche: an unhomely
home. A rubber crotch on a mannequin.
