The faucet doesn’t sound like the river
“You’re good at math. Your sister’s good at writing.”
She was dyslexic and I didn’t have any trauma
“You’re good with science. She’s great with language.”
No wonder her words cut so deep
No wonder I knew how to sharpen knives
“If only they hadn’t changed the curriculum in first grade”
Regret rested heavily on her brow
Like a bowling ball on a wet trampoline
She always indulged in the past
Like one more piece of dark chocolate from the drawer
below the medicine cabinet
–
Elementary reading was difficult, I was behind
Spelling, right clicked red lines
“Good readers are good writers! You need to read more.”
I couldn’t even finish The Battle of the Labyrinth
Ironic
–
I was so excited to choose Shakespeare
The neck ruffles of my costume tickled
Like the laughter of the classroom
Sonnet 18 aloud from memory
A stifling vulnerability drowned my cheeks
An unrecognized transformation
Poetry, romance writing lilting lines
–
“I hope she doesn’t look at this”
So I wrote in the dark
and hid it opened under my bedside
I resisted my prophetic authority
Like Mordred in I Am Mordred
I wrote The Park Ranger
“You didn’t write this. Really? No, I don’t believe you”
For the first time I didn’t believe her either
“You should publish this” 