Lessons Learned In Childhood

 

My mother called mahjong pieces "Chinese tiles." 

They were a pretty mystery to me.

A symbol can be like a mute with something to say;

its tongue tied by one's own ignorance.

Gingerbread men have commonalities with real ones.

They can be sweet, or fragile,

and (some of them) smell good and draw me in.

Sometimes there is another one after this one; sometimes not.

At thirteen I was prescribed eyeglasses.

Astigmatism made everything unclear but luminous,

sending blurs of light out from their centers.

You are still unclear to me. You still send out light from your center.

A finger's width is the difference between the next stair

and a broken leg. Catch your heel

and life takes on a whole new itinerary.

There are springes everywhere, so my mother said as she laid more for me.

I couldn't trust my mother, and she taught me

not to trust myself either.

I was in love with the neighbor's purple peonies, so brief and lovely.

I am both fox and hen, and don't know how to love you.

You are Chinese tiles. I am mute. I'm sorry, and can't explain why.

________

for Word Garden Word List: Amy Lowell. 

springes = traps

Music: Steve Nicks "Talk To Me"