Poetry by Dythandra

Let Freedom Ring
(sequel to this poem--read it first)

He hands me the cheque--one month rent, plus damage deposit
Who'd have guessed a dead body could be so animated,
But that's what he swore he'd be
Sooner than help me flee the nest.

But that was a few weeks ago,
And his Maginot Line meant little
When my mother is Belgium.

Five months into her sobriety,
She's a little... intense.
I get nervous just watching her pour tea,
But at least she's still awake at sundown.

She finds things to keep her busy,
Keep her mind occupied with anything other
Than the 1.4 mile drive to Liquor Depot.

Wouldn't she want to shed me, the hellchild
To extinguish the daily challenge I offer
To her continued sober state of mind?

No, she hangs on like grim death
(Is life alone with Pater a scarier proposition?)
And bleats to him that I'm not ready.
She doesn't know how to clean, or cook, or budget
Maybe not, but if the neighbor's cat slept the hood of MY new Jetta every night,
My vengeance would be quick, and final.

Father is less shrill, but just as obstinate
He doesn't work all day to waste his money
On the debauchery he imagines
My new home will host.

I dare not even hint at my goal:
The small apartment over the tattoo place where I used to work.

Instead, I take advantage of Mother's natural curiosity
Which, coupled with her boredom,
Assures she'll go check the computer
When I swear at it and run out the door.

I'd "forgotten" to completely close my facebook
There's the message exchange for her to see:
"Snake" the scary-looking biker and I
Working out the details--me moving into the loft of their clubhouse,
His assurance that though I may lack the cash for rent
There are other ways to work off that debt.

I'm away a few hours, and as expected,
There are two of them waiting when I return.
They won't admit to reading my facebook,
Instead speaking of second thoughts,
And keeping open lines of communication.

They ask if I've got any places in mind,
I allude to the biker loft, reluctantly admit there's another choice;
They agree to check it out.

A lovely Mormon girl opens the door--Beatrice
She's the dream of what they wish I'd be,
She owes me for ghostwriting the essay on DH Lawrence
That was impossible for one paralyzed
By a fear of all things carnal.

My real future roommate is away
Courtesy of a judge
Who frowns on parole violations.
I'll share her with the parents
After the lease is signed.

No surprises--their relief is palpable,
And a cheque for two months rent, with more postdated,
Wins my escape from suburban bliss.

That night Snake vanishes from facebook,
He served me well, a photo harvested from a Harley site
A few lines of info
That painted my parents' worst nightmare

My young faux roommate shudders before she leaves,
Watching me trash the half-dozen traps I inherited
From the previous tenant.

Tonight when the furry denizens of my walls
Come searching for their scaps and crumbs,
They'll meet a kinder welcome,
And I'll have all those pets
My childhood was denied.