I am an impatient thing
with a lot of nothing to say
so I take
consume the media.
something in there has to mean something.
I look up on the internet
how to pray the rosary
because either they didn’t teach us that
at sunday school
or I forgot.
it’s sad when both are equally plausible.
I devour my parent’s life stories
and my grandparent’s nostalgia
(this is why I took my granpapa’s typewriter:
I never knew him, but it’s part of who he was)
to craft a name for myself.
a name they can be proud of. a name I can be proud of.
as much as I sometimes dream
of the stardust
of my name up in lights
what I want more than anything
so that I can live without labels without breaking.
looks like I’ll have to take scissors to those tags.
I drown in choices.
the world is my oyster
but I remember how my father
could pry them open with a chisel
serve them up with life’s lemons
and we would swallow them whole.
I’m not sure I like that analogy.
maybe I’ll create my own.
© christine DINGLEY 2012