Because I am Being Sucked into the Very Vortex of the Art World, and Seem to Have Forgotten that I Once Had A Life Unrelated to Visual Art: A Poem

October 7th, 2004 · 2 Comments · Writing


Schooldays, when you are young,
your mother pulls your hair
tight against the scalp,
twisting and weaving blond
strands into each other,
curving the thick mass into
tight symmetry. You are a polished
child; never a loose thread or a smudged
cheek. You suffer under her hands
as the last morning task before the
carpool horn sounds to take you
to the academy for musically-gifted
children. First grade: flute. Second,
after a poignant assertion of independence:

Your hairdo leaves you wounded, with a slight
headache zigzagging between rebellious thoughts.
So you pry at the plait against your head
until a single hair works free. Convicted,
you pull it out by the root. You examine
the popped follicle, a white bauble balanced
on the fine black tip of the hair like a grace note.
Half-listening to a lecture on Mozart’s prodigy,
you wind that wild floss around your index
finger until it swells cherry-red. Your bow
is strung with horse’s hair, which might break,
your teacher tells you, if you hit it too hard
against the strings.

-Megan McMillan

Category: Writing

2 Comments so far ↓

  • J-Baz

    Upon Returning From a Brief Vacation and I Seem to Remember that We Said We Might Have Brunch This Saturday
    (a poem)
    by J-Baz
    Weekends, when you’re house-dog-cat-sitting at your parents — Who are off enjoying magnificent faraway South American landscapes, both city (Buenos Aires) and country (Iguazu Falls)
    and the utility room is mid-remodel
    and those skilled artisans whose promise was to “finish the floors” and “reconnect the washer and dryer” may as well be going over Iguazu Falls in a barrel
    instead of returning the calls of the bewildered, the daughters of drudgery who would only like to do their laundry for free
    When you examine the mountains, the tons of junk mail, when one is so different from one’s only sibling
    will the real house-sitter please stand up?
    the fridge: filled with leftover pizza, chinese delivery, yet the kitchen sink: filled with dishes, why??
    Disturbing things happen: mail is placed on the back of a vehicle instead of in the mailbox on the front porch
    an orange card reads “Dangerous Dog Notice”
    True a barking dog is unsettling
    But the dog is locked inside the house – Never in 5 years since this dog came to live here has a letter carrier left such a notice
    What cure? What cure indeed?
    Honey cured ham? Fluffy scrambled eggs and
    crispy delicious hash browns
    Buttery toast?
    So, how ’bout it? Still want to have brunch on Sat?

  • Megan

    Eggs, buttery toast? Are you kidding! Count me in! Great poem, btw, sure you weren’t cut out to be a writer instead of a lawyer?

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