Poetry by Dythandra

Faint Praise

The letter arrived like others before it,
School letterhead, wisely hidden
In a plain envelope.

My mother was home that day, unexpectedly
And found it before I had the chance
To feed my friend, the shredder.

"You are cordially invited..."
Odd. Usually they begin:
"We would like to discuss some concerns..."
Is it a trick?
Like those who are invited for lottery winnings,
But find only traffic court awaits.

No such... luck.
To my mother's hardly concealed glee,
She and paternal parental
Are invited to
"A celebration of excellence".

She finishes, triumphantly, and glances at us
Across the remains of my favorite dinner.
You'd think it was her achievement
This epistle arrived to proclaim.

My father was more circumspect
He glanced at me, awaiting a cue
Some clue to guide
His "spontaneous" reaction.

I searched quickly through the catalogue
Of all my best expressions
And settled on disdain.

The queen of this moment was not disheartened
By my lack of enthusiasm--she hardly could have expected any.

It was her moment--a small vindication
That my existence, traumatic
From the moment my arrival on stage
Destroyed her body's chances
To reproduce again...

...through the dozen meetings with school counselors,
Those "paraprofessionals" with little more to offer
Than platitudes punctuated with nods
And worried clucking.

But this--some small allowance by the system
That I was worthy of more
Than tired phone calls from frightened adults
Afraid to meet my glare.

In best award show tradition, there was no hint
Of what kudos I had won.
This, of course, allowed my mother's imagination
The freedom to run rampant
Through fields of academic glory.

I knew in an instant
The source of the situation.

My art teacher--young, "offbeat"
As I once heard an older staffer prattle,
Had chosen to name me
For some token award.

Clearly nouveau nihilism
Is in this season.

The evening of the ceremony
My "wardrobe" was there, laid out on my bed.
I can still be surprised at times
By the poor woman's naivete.

Still, a proper fashion statement
Would be difficult to pull off--
Any disciple of the "offbeat"
Only panders to expectations
When seeking to offend.

Finally, annoyed, I settled for my traditional
"What the hell are you looking at"
Combination of black eye accentuation
Accompanied by the rhythm
Of the heaviest boots in my closet.

Just as we began to pull out of the driveway,
I made some excuse about needing my gum
And ran back into the the house.

The jar with the snakes I captured in the garden
Was easily concealed under my jacket.

I shall justify my acclaim
With a little demonstration
Of spontaneous "performance art."

I hope my mother's brought her migraine pills.