Raised by beasts of burden, I can lock my
knees around a goat's back like the rodeo.
And I can speak to the trees.
Sap from a dandelion's stem is the eternal
perfume of my fingers.
Weaving so
many crowns of weeds, you could
Pluck dandelions from my forehead.
I danced to the music of my father's guitar
and his brother's harmonica.
(Yakety yak
don't talk back, bring in the dog, put out the cat).
And I fell asleep, covered in mosquito bites.
And church pews and stained glass, and I
always called out,
"Come out, come out, wherever you are, God."
And he hasn't really come yet.
And I caught the bus to nursing homes, and I
can't stand the smell.
"If you can't beat 'em out, breed 'em
out," my grandfather said,
but I like
to think I see past the muscle and the flesh.
I also know slammed doors, that my sister and I are more alike.
I have heard
her cries in the middle of the night, sobs like mine.
And the night sky can hug you when nobody else will.
I come from pasture grass and from bottles of
pills.
From alcohol and relatives who don't love
you.
"Only writing with a lot of sex gets
sold."
And raised
eyebrows, because my voice has shattered the monotony.
You learn from these things: nobody cares what you have to say.
"Make 'em laugh, make 'em cry, make 'em
wait," he's said since my first heartbreak
But I love a
little too much. And I can't make
them cry, and I can't wait.
I can't wait!
I know that
he, and him, and that guy over there are all bad for me,
But I'm used the solemn face, and the closed
door, and the bottles of pills,
Because
girls marry their fathers.
And I come from a mobile and two music boxes
that all play 'Send in the Clowns,'
And I know Robert Frost better than the
alphabet.
There is so much bad shit in this world,
That I left God(ot) waiting under a tree,
But after a long night, and a froyo, and hours
of whispered, deep nonsense,
I
bet you could still pluck dandelions from my forehead.
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