Back home, the girls are not soft —
they pit peaches with their teeth,
drink sadness like they’re starving.
They always dance alone,
listen to songs with lyrics
about strawberry wine.
They blossom like beer bottles,
wear october on their shins,
split open, screaming —
a foreign rose
for a fight.
"You know, Carole, for a long time now whenever a girl or a woman has come to me weeping or bitter because some love affair has ended[,] I’ve always thought of you. And wished the girl or woman in question might have a little of the swell, healthy philosophy which marks you in these matters. So often you’ve said to me,’When I feel a love affair is drawing to close I end it—and remain friends with the guy!’ And when I’ve questioned you as to how you’ve been able to tell when a love affair was about to end you’ve given me one of your square looks, laughed, and said: “We women with our sensitive antennae always can tell about such things, you know we can. It’s just that we’re romantic and that we hope against hope and—hang on!’[…] [Y]ou manage to be healthily mindful of some of the things the man gave you, of the pleasure you had with him to have spent so much time with him, and of other things too, depending upon the man…"
-Adele Whitley Fletcher, in a letter addressed to Carole Lombard and Clark Gable, 1936.
Actress Carole Lombard (1908-1942)