I wanted to be Cher, tall as a glass of iced tea, her bony shoulders draped with a curtain of dark hair that plunged straight down, the cut tips brushing her nonexistent butt. I wanted to wear a lantern for a hat, a cabbage, a piñata and walk in thigh-high boots with six-inch heels that buttoned up the back. I wanted her rouged cheek bones and her throaty panache, her voice of gravel and clover, the hokum of her clothes: black fishnet and pink pom-poms, fringed bells and her thin strip of a waist with the bullet-hole navel. Cher standing with her skinny arm slung around Sonny's thick neck, posing in front of the Eiffel Tower, The Leaning Tower of Pisa, The Great Wall of China, The Crumbling Pyramids, smiling for the camera with her crooked teeth, hit-and-miss beauty, the sun bouncing off the bump on her nose. Give me back the old Cher, the gangly, imperfect girl before the shaving knife took her, before they shoved pillows in her tits, injected the lumpy gel into her lips. Take me back to the woman I wanted to be, stalwart and silly, smart as her lion tamer's whip, my body a torch stretched the length of the polished piano, legs bent at the knee, hair cascading down over Sonny's blunt fingers as he pummeled the keys, singing in a sloppy alto the oldest, saddest songs. Dorianne Laux