It should be Margaret Meade
leaving her barely palatable threesome
to figure it all out for me.
I don’t live on the banks of the Orinoco:
these rocks on the bottom are
all paved and worn with ruts.
I do want to know why
my brown eyes turned green after
fifty years, why Ancestry DNA needs
my saliva. Is there really no
First Nation in my children
or Swede in my black hair?
Come on, Margaret, crawl out
of that anemic bed and learn
my language, that secret ceremony
that should save me, again, again,
and never does. Tell me the meaning
of rituals I always answered with yes.
Why is time suddenly the last button
on a dress shirt; the half-ripped
left back jean pocket; I’m naked
wading to my waist in muddy
water, leeches threatening.
Just look at me, write it down.
Karen Vande Bossche has been writing poetry and short stories for decades. Some recent work can be found at Damfino and Damselfly. Karen is a hard core Pacific Northwest inhabitant who believes that sun is best delivered in liquid form.
