Still Out

Picture of coveted Naughty Monkey Quickie heels posted in honor of Dr. Isis, a new favorite at P&L, thanks to Blue Lyon. Annabelle has never spent more than $40 on a pair of shoes, but she is deeply in love with this pair, on sale at $75, so she may have to take the plunge and buy them for herselfe for X-mas.

Picture of coveted Naughty Monkey Quickie heels posted in honor of Dr. Isis, a new favorite at P&L, thanks to Blue Lyon. Anna Belle has never spent more than $40 on a pair of shoes, but she is deeply in love with this pair, on sale at $75, so she may have to take the plunge and buy them for herself for X-mas.

I’m still out, and busy as ever. Looks like I will be until Wednesday, at least. No matter, those last two essays needed the space to be absorbed. Sorry for getting all heavy on you. It had to be done. Purge and purge and purge, always the miscreant purge. Heh. Yes, I am a sick fuck for twisting Whitman like that, for those of you who get that. Anyway, I might pop in for a quick post or two about developing news before Wednesday, but I won’t have the time to produce anything substantial, if I even had the energy to do so after the last two essays. In the meantime, I thought I’d leave you with this poem I wrote about my daughter a couple of years ago. It’s a little sentimental, but we could all use something sweet these days.

Promise of Summer
for C. R.
It is not yet April and already she wears sandals,
her piggish toes exposed to the world.
In her red hoodie, blue jeans, and flip flops
this daughter of mine looks changed—
suddenly, girlishly metropolitan.
Her perma-scowl is balanced perfectly
between pony tails that only hint
at her waning innocence.

I thought to stop her before she left,
some instinct toward maternal wisdom
rising in my throat, but choked back
by my experience as a woman in the world,
free of relationships that define me;
feeling feminine power like
shrugging on a borrowed red dress,
a little flamboyant, but fun to try on.
I want her to shrug on the dress and dance,
her hands reaching for the sun as she grows long,
her fingers curling like tendril’d vines.

She is eleven and her breasts have risen
beneath her pink undershirts like
the bread my grandmother used to make,
magically and quickly reaching its full potential.
She would shame me for telling that
but I cannot help but marvel
at Rose blooming right before me,
her petals unfolding by the hour.

This morning she looked relaxed in her clothes,
sporting the stoic cynicism that makes the young look cool,
posturing apathy in the very slackness of her stance.
I am not allowed to touch or intervene.
I must trust what I have done and what she becomes.
She is locked tight, a fleshy seed with a tiny leaf,
the promise of summer growing inside it.

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One comment on “Still Out

  1. bluelyon says:

    Beautiful poem. Thank you.

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