the jester

You must have me confused with another woman
or another version of me
from three days
or three years
or three lovers
or three lifetimes ago
back when I still thought that grace
meant keeping my eyes closed
and my mouth shut.

You say you love me
but maybe that’s only when
there’s no one else available
to mother you.

You say you support me
but maybe that’s only when
it’s your shoulders holding up
my ankles.

I can’t hear your excuses
over the teakettle screaming
while I knit myself a sweater
from all the message threads left unanswered
and I must have forgotten when exactly it was
that I agreed to be at the bottom
of your never ending to-do list.

You may want to check your math
because three half truths + ten white lies
don’t add up to anything that
I want to hear right now
and I could fill canyons with all the things you failed to mention
but please
explain to me one more time how I’ve misinterpreted reality.

Listen.
There are ten thousand other things I could be doing
with my precious time
than wait for you to decide
if I’m worth some of yours
and while I sit here and listen to you tell me that I need too much
I’ve grown wings and claws and fangs
and fire is sparking from my tongue
with datura flowers blossoming underneath my breasts
and a supernova exploding between my thighs
and I don’t think you understand
who you’re talking to.

Listen.
I’m not your mother
and I’m not that nice
and while you weave me another story about why you’re sorry
my tea has gone cold
my patience has worn thin
my grace has dried up
your time has run out
and I’m already writing a new fairy tale
because there are kings among men
and somewhere
a court
is missing
its jester.

One Comment Add yours

  1. Lois Flanders says:

    Love this poem and all the images. Your super talented. What a gift you have.

    Like

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