I do not believe it when I win Miss Universe.
Cameras flash, all asking the same question,
and my smile is the only correct response.
I am opening my legs like Annabel Chong
to Hollywood and endorsement deals. I am
making the world a better place one wave
at a time. Every terrorist who sees me on TV
is lowering his gun to the ground, turning
his unshaven face up to the sky to cry.
Marriage offers gather like surf at my door.
The man I pick is rich, old, American
and a bore. I am the centre of every party.
Soon I am the mother of two, twin girls
as beautiful as me. But time feasts on my health
and I am diagnosed with something terminal.
Everyone—the media, my family—visits
me at the hospital. Even now, everyone
wants to know how I have stayed this happy.
Before I wake up from this nightmare,
gasping and begging for my lover's embrace,
I am sitting in a white bed, looked on by
sad smiles and nodding heads, cameras
snapping away like dogs outside my room,
barking that one question over and over.
With a smile and wave and diamonds in my eyes,
I reply the way I have always replied.
