deepundergroundpoetry.com
In Dimidio
I was once a young woman
raised for the inherited purpose
of finding a young man;
born and bred
from faithful stock,
I swallowed myself whole
without chewing
to become
my mother’s daughter;
but my sensory hedonism
and wild moon howling
regularly escaped
shoddily constructed confinement;
shame and regret followed me
like a loyal pup,
committed to shadowing
my every move
youth shoved me harshly,
with eyes rolled
at my sudden irrelevance,
slamming the door
loudly behind me
and turning the deadbolt
as if to make the point
that I won’t be allowed
to return;
the sweet giggles
of my babies
left to sit on blankets
in the cool shade
on sunny days
without me
I am not yet
an old woman,
bent with the burden
of carrying wisdom
gathered the hard way;
silver hair flowing
free of the weight of a crown
earned meeting expectations,
the weight of opinions
that never should
have been allowed
to matter in the slightest
shrugged from rounded shoulders,
the strong silk of quiet grace
softly draping them now, instead
old age
peeks through the chain-lock
at the other end of the hallway -
I’m too full of dreams, yet
to be invited in for tea;
with a voice made of the rasp
of having been dragged
across long miles
of rough pavement
she asks me to return
just as soon as I’m saturated
with memories instead,
preparing for
the inevitable end
is the flavor brewing
in the antique pot
on the stove
raised for the inherited purpose
of finding a young man;
born and bred
from faithful stock,
I swallowed myself whole
without chewing
to become
my mother’s daughter;
but my sensory hedonism
and wild moon howling
regularly escaped
shoddily constructed confinement;
shame and regret followed me
like a loyal pup,
committed to shadowing
my every move
youth shoved me harshly,
with eyes rolled
at my sudden irrelevance,
slamming the door
loudly behind me
and turning the deadbolt
as if to make the point
that I won’t be allowed
to return;
the sweet giggles
of my babies
left to sit on blankets
in the cool shade
on sunny days
without me
I am not yet
an old woman,
bent with the burden
of carrying wisdom
gathered the hard way;
silver hair flowing
free of the weight of a crown
earned meeting expectations,
the weight of opinions
that never should
have been allowed
to matter in the slightest
shrugged from rounded shoulders,
the strong silk of quiet grace
softly draping them now, instead
old age
peeks through the chain-lock
at the other end of the hallway -
I’m too full of dreams, yet
to be invited in for tea;
with a voice made of the rasp
of having been dragged
across long miles
of rough pavement
she asks me to return
just as soon as I’m saturated
with memories instead,
preparing for
the inevitable end
is the flavor brewing
in the antique pot
on the stove
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