My mother has given me
a fake gold ring,
from her mother
and it cuts into your cornucopian thigh
as I change you,
your first wound.
Is this how I provide for you?
As I was provided for, given
every precious thing foraged
hand-me-down clothes and jobs
and roles, and dreams
ill-fitting and faded,
nothing gone to waste?
Is this living well or
a black hole legacy?
Are we survivors
if we emit no light?
ESSAY
Is it too late to live on the farm?
Is it too late to spend hours in a whitewashed industrial studio
covering myself with acrylic paint, and rolling across a canvas
or stand among spittle-soaked strands of green
dog snapping at the heels of cloud-zippered sheep?
Has the time to smoke on Sicilian tile patios,
one strand of hair winding around a purpled-spotted finger
truly passed? Or to marry young, have children young,
and retire young enough to begin singing in lounges
in backless sequined dresses
making slow figure eights with a single lit cigarette?
It appears the time to have the phrase,
“she always wanted” in my obituary has passed
and I’ll have to let go of, “enduring passion”
“constant” and “dedicated” as well.
But could I negotiate being surrounded
by tender sepia-toned photographs of Morocco,
if there’s room, I mean.
8
Julie M. Wolfe previous work has appeared in Breakwater Review, White Whale Review, Crack the Spine, The Clackamas Literary Review, and Wisconsin Verse.
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