Poetry by Dythandra

Pomp and Circumstance

The parentals have that look again,
Wary of what is coming
Like all trainable mammals
They learn from experience.

The first salvo is fired by my mother:
"We have to make plans" she bleats.

Plans.

I have many of them
Some involve explosives.
Probably best not to share those just yet.

"What plans?" I ask sweetly.

She hesitates, then pent-up dreams of conformity
Pour forth.

Photos, my dress, my date, a dinner, relatives, limo...
She pauses, a far-off look in her eyes
No doubt remembering some moment of import--
Her first emptying of stomach contents inspired by cheap rum,
Or drunken libidinal fumblings in the back of borrowed car
The adolescent middle-class dream.

When she finishes, too much revealed, she waits;
Her fear of further disappointment
Springing from the one product of her loins--
Yours truly, a scratch-and-win ticket that proclaimed "Please try again"
But the lottery booth was already closed,
So she plays this losing hand once more.

I almost feel a pang of sympathy,
But recall my childhood mortification as a fourth-grader
When neighbor kids asked why my mother talked that way
And we had so many empty bottles in our trash.

I sigh. "I haven't given it much thought."
Not true--I just push it from the forefront of my mind
For self-indulgent differentness is a luxury of the young
And with this passage I shall face intolerance
For my admittedly pretentious misanthropy.

Metacognition it's called, by those dozens of parenting volumes
Populating my mother's bookcase of futility.

This "milestone" serves to inspire reflection,
Even in one so unrecalcitrant as myself.

A date? Probably not this troubled boy
I think I inspired his prescriptions.

The bus driver's too old,
(Plus I hear he got busted for dealing downtown)
My neighbor's mother will call the cops,
And were Danny suitable, there's that little problem
Of shared DNA.

I could defy the heterocentrist agenda,
But even if the objects of my affections were compliant
I've no desire to become the target
Of peurile Facebook photo tags.

So in a moment of weakness,
I solve another's fear of flying solo
On this evening that belongs to
The partnered and paired.

My outfit for the evening is another point of contention
My mother has a history of being disappointed in my attire
And seems relieved when I admit I'll wear a dress
--Decorated by an artistic print, I assure her--
(Did you know Dali liked to work with decomposing equines?)

My mother plans a family dinner, with all manner of kin
Joining on this awkward occasion.
They show up with ill-chosen gifts
(Grandmama never could shop for me)
But my favorite is my uncle's book of Irish saints
With an offer to bootleg refreshments for me and my date
Tucked neatly by a description of St. Faoileann.

I almost blush to admit I didn't go out with an explosion,
Though I did allow myself one little indulgence;
One of my two former disciples--the one with the less hysterical mother--
Has kept in touch.

Careful timing allowed her to replace the CD
Chosen for our triumphant recessional from the Graduation Hall
Certainly you'd agree--that annoying Vitamin C song is far less apropos
Than "Highway to Hell".

Alas, maturity awaits. I think I shall let it cool its heels
A little bit longer.