I can only be what I am,
a barren poet,
a mother of none,
an unknown know nothing,
a solitary sad sack, a fool
for optimism's despotic twin,
a gardener without a garden,
a pedant servant of liars,
a double bearer of
insufferable
substitute
smarts,
a
loser lost,
and the child
of ancestors so
disappointed in my
unconquerable weakness
that they turn their faces away
and petition the gods for redress,
for a redistribution of the accumulated
wealth that in a moment of over-
weening familial pride they
bequeathed to a daughter
so frail, so unused to
the weight of duty
and obligation,
that she let
slip
treasures
dearly bought
between knobby
knuckled fingers,
and only now, at the
setting of the sun cries
out at their melting gleaming
glow, and grants them only
a timid glance, too late
to be wistful, and
without saving
grace,
the only feature we share
is the angle at which
we bear our
shame.
October 30, 2024
