Kirsten Dunst

I sing of you,
Kirsten Dunst,
and your dark blonde image;

recall you tweaking me
in the vampire movie —
how did they get a little girl

to be that ravishing,
and what does it mean that
I noticed?

As a cheerleader you were
exactly as I imagined you would be,
like the girl I saw swimming

down the beach from where I fished
in high school,
and I reeled in the pickerel

knowing that you’d never be
mine, and I threw the fish back
in jealous anger.

In the superhero movie
you were perfect and unafraid
of the freaks who surrounded you,

and I began to have hope —
until I heard that out of character you were dating
the supermen around you and not the freaks.

Kirsten Dunst, those are all of the movies
I’ve seen with you in them. Maybe
you’ve made more, maybe not. Maybe

the kid in the coffee house
who insisted you were the sister
of that guy in Limp Bizkit

was right, maybe not. Maybe I’ve never really
been in love with you
and your wicked eyes. But it takes a village

to smother a child, and I think back to you
vamping for the villain
when you were so young, and I wonder

that I was so easily suckered myself,
that I dislike blondes but stop to stare
at you on a magazine cover, that I think I know

your every mood and move
without stepping inside a theater, that the village
makes us think you are someone we should know.