Marlene Deitrich At 70 Had Legs That Shot To HeavenKirsten Kaschock
Her eyes at 70 said, I’ve never cared at all. When she sang, it was to dance. She was consummate. Practice, practice, and being paid to die. She had all I’ve ever wanted. Her gestapo posture in Vegas, the night I was born. I saw it all on A&E. She sang about spring that night and it was about death. She smiled, and death. She tucked a curl of an obvious wig back into place and it was death. I was born on the last gasp of her glittering shroud, although she didn’t die until she was 90. She was motionless when she danced it in Vegas the night of my birth. Her hands clasped behind her. To dance the death dance, to wrap the black shawl around my waist, twirl, shoulders, twirl, face, is all I have ever been given to want. In a few turns death rises to make beauty. Look— they say See the pale face, the blood-weary lips seeking blue. I will be her with the silk fringe on the edge of edge. Heel, toe. Stomp. Pull. Drag. Fall and rise. They will ask— How many times is it possible to rise? Elbows turned out, palms to ceiling, and balanced on each painful finger— particular death. Make no mistake, she is a witch— they will say— see how she dances. Marlene let it be filmed. I will not let it be filmed. I will not hand over this dance to another girl, born to it— bloody come and strangling to this world.
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