Friday, August 10, 2012

Graduating with a torn map to the life we should want...but don't


Cutting one’s own offspring’s
umbilical cord is a challenge,
even for someone as powerful
as the Almighty.

Three to six years of study are required
to notarize a deed of sale or audit
debits and credits. I couldn’t find
a college with even a one-year Major
in Motherhood.

Being a middle child, I settled
for Commerce-ever determined
to close in on my brother’s two-year
head start in life.

He wasn’t threatened by me,
any more than Coke is by Pepsi.
That’s how it is when you’re “the real thing”-
Too busy selling bottles, and cans-
to worry about taste tests.

Pepsi could learn a thing or two.
We all could.

Freedom is the smelly, rotten
cheese promised in grade school
for jumping through mind-numbing
Pavlovian hoops, meant to remold
God’s image.
I chased curiosity like string
on a ball of yarn, stretching
across restricted lines. Nobody noticed,
as long as I towed the line- which I could not 
always do.

Jokes flew off my tongue-
like a skunk’s spray. There was no
medication back then, to level
competition for students

Freedom is the black hole
we step into upon liberation
from childhood- armed with a torn map
to the life we should want,
but don’t.

Determined to be selected, naturally
I peed on sticks with abandon,
like I had forgotten how
babies are made-

I embraced each faint pair of lines
in the bosom of its own 

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