(based on the life of Lana Turner)
Once upon a time in Hollywood,
when stars were glamorous and married often,
there lived an explosive bombshell
named Julia Jean Turner,
who wanted a family and a career.
So she sat in drugstores,
distracting the soda jerks in her tight sweaters and conical bras,
waiting to be discovered like a mathematical formula.
When stardom found her first,
she truncated two offspring in progress,
cycling through husbands and lovers like they were nylons.
Rather than the arms of children around her neck,
it was jewels in her post-Depression world,
where steak and tomatoes with her agent–
“the glitz on the ritz”–
replaced donuts and coffee with the hobos.
The child that was convenient for her to have
never married or had any children,
for her mother had shown her that men
were a penny a dozen.
And her mother,
in her irony,
had wanted seven children and one husband,
but had ended up with seven husbands and one child,
let her daughter kiss her cheek that final time,
when mussed-up makeup didn’t matter anymore.