Epitaph

Well intended, but uniformed

Bo says this with gentle admonition

For my loving blunder

I will rearrange my life

It’s enraging to think

I endured and survived a myriad of atrocities

To be so shook by a single utterance

Rage on, internal strife!

But what’s true is true

So, I must take stock

Ret my soul

Pull out the fibres that fray

Examine the remnants of my deconstruction

Reconfigure them into someone

Respectable

Grow a pair, as they say

Though puerile I may appear

I most certainly am not afraid

My literary blunders, though they burn

Are the least of my fears

Break seven generations of trauma

Be a good mother; I didn’t have a good mother

I raised her (and myself!)

through the years

Now somehow

I must teach a good boy

How to become a man

Who is good to animals, is kind

He knows bits of my story

Determined, I work

To stay with him, be present

Repair my sore mind

For myself, I must

Try not to seek chaos

Like the magnets on my fridge

Burgeoning paper pyramids on display

Until they slide down the front

The power bill holds steady

But the dinosaur drawing broke the camel’s back

A portent to convey

It’s a great story

I say to dear friends, holding my wine

Please hands, do not shake

With shame - the first inning:

“Did I ever tell you

I met my brother by accident

Because he was hitting on me?”

It really is a good beginning

The story is salacious

But it goes nowhere

Until I make something of myself

Other than a punchline.