Beth Dotson Brown
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Beth Dotson Brown is an award winning freelance writer and editor who lives in Lancaster, KY.
She is the author of Yes! I Am Catholic and contributor to A Cup of Comfort for Breast Cancer Survivors. Beth writes for magazines, newspapers and nonprofit organizations. Her short stories have been published in literary magazines and aired on the BBC World Service Short Story Programme; her package of one-act plays is published by Heartland Plays. In addition, she enjoys teaching young writers, leading workshops and serves as a Promise Neighborhood Artist-in-Residence. In 2007 she founded an after school writing program for female middle school writers that has so far been replicated in three other counties. She’s also a member of the ten-year-old Grassroots Writers’ Group, a group of female writers in central Kentucky. You can reach her at www.bethdotsonbrown.net. |
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Padded, pink bra
Padded, pink bra
rests
in crook of tree’s arm,
forgotten
after early morning pay.
Clear vodka bottle
announces
current choice of poison,
empty
from tilting in the dark.
Cigarette butt
stained
from Santa-red lips
blows
in winter breeze,
abandoned
only because of child care rules.
Shiny convertible
drives
eyes steadily ahead
avoiding
bra, bottle,
not seeing
the local discardees.
Neighborhood walker
wonders
why the city is
bleeding,
one block
dying,
slowly and alone.
--Beth Dotson Brown
rests
in crook of tree’s arm,
forgotten
after early morning pay.
Clear vodka bottle
announces
current choice of poison,
empty
from tilting in the dark.
Cigarette butt
stained
from Santa-red lips
blows
in winter breeze,
abandoned
only because of child care rules.
Shiny convertible
drives
eyes steadily ahead
avoiding
bra, bottle,
not seeing
the local discardees.
Neighborhood walker
wonders
why the city is
bleeding,
one block
dying,
slowly and alone.
--Beth Dotson Brown
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Essay- Excerpt from A Cup of Comfort for Breast Cancer Survivors
The Hoopla about Hair
I’ve always been the kind of woman who can walk into a party unnoticed. People continue to sip their drinks and spin their stories as I scan the crowd for someone I know. As the music wafts through the conversations, it occurs to me that if I turn around and walk out, no one will realize I was there. Not a soul will miss me—unless someone was planning to corner me and ask me to volunteer on another committee or cook something for the next party. My gifts to the world lie beneath, rather than displayed on, my surface.
I always assumed if I were beautiful (like the magazines define it) and more shapely (had bigger breasts) a party entrance might be different. But perhaps not. Breast cancer has taught me the secret to getting attention might not be any of those things; instead, it’s all up to your head, or rather,
what’s on your head. Gorgeous hair gets attention, and I found my dazzling hair in the form of a wig. . . .
I always assumed if I were beautiful (like the magazines define it) and more shapely (had bigger breasts) a party entrance might be different. But perhaps not. Breast cancer has taught me the secret to getting attention might not be any of those things; instead, it’s all up to your head, or rather,
what’s on your head. Gorgeous hair gets attention, and I found my dazzling hair in the form of a wig. . . .