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(no subject) [Sep. 27th, 2005|07:34 pm]
A portrait of us stands above the mantle
its simple, just two faces looking intensely different and subtly the same
A mother packs a picnic lunch and washes her hands before putting the children in the car
she is tired but energetic and she pretends that she has found it all
at night she will worry about what life will bring when school has consumed her sons
she worries about when they learn how to ride their bikes and don’t need her to chauffer.
you promise me this will never be us, you promise me our nights will never be restless
and that conversation will never run dry
we went to the ballet, the music was too quiet, not a full orchestra, just a piano
I could hear the feet of the dancers tapping on the floor, I could feel them breathing deeply every time they left the stage
and I told you this is not perfection

I am a small black girl, I have full lips, a wide nose and nappy hair that you will never be able to run your fingers through
and i told you this is not perfection
you come with standards of tea and ballet and cocktail hours
dancers aren’t suppose to be people, footsteps aren’t suppose to be heard
you need an orchestra
we walk around the park your hands are strong enough to hold a pen and words
large words like conundrum and peccadillo
even in January the park is full of tourists and children and lovers
you promise me this will never be us
the familiarity of the cigarette between your lips is a sign that spring is far away
i wish for lent, for a time to give something up, to give you up
And i told you this is not perfection

and we were at the Metropolitan Museum and I cried and you held me and i knew that was it. we were done.
Tomorrow i will leave and you won’t notice, one day when it is hot and summer
your mother will point to the mantle and speak to a portrait, you’ll cautiously turn your head
and you’ll see us
its simple

A mother waits as her son drives out of sight; He is gone, to his wife and his children and his perfect life
she thinks this is it, the perfect cycle of marriage, motherhood and retirement
she knows she still has the energy to pack a lunch and go to the park
she knows she would be alone and that her work is done
you promised me this will never be us
and i told you this is not perfection.
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