At first, I thought I was the catalyst for change: made you
dye your hair, borrow my blazer and take
the office job in Cambridge.
Thus taking secret credit for your success.
This time you’re doing it all on your own and not only
without me, you’re doing it to spite me.
No, in spite of me.
That’s one truth.
I was a duty you couldn’t quite shrug off.
I exasperated you.
Cast off, an appendage, a prosthesis you no longer needed.
Still, I keep track.
Who can say what I would do,
what would I have done, if I didn’t have you as a wall
to break myself against?
I’m impatient when there’s no news.
Oh, it’s radical to tell the story of peace, all right.
But what do you know about that?
Your last letter, Germanic, full of convoluted nouns.
Taut enough to break diamonds.
A story set in the locker bays. What a laugh.
As if we were two cheerleaders arm wrestling over a boy.
A knife blade in the back?
No nun loves her wounds more than you.
A Pushcart Prize nominee in 2009, TERRY ANN WRIGHT has published most recently in vis a tergo, Redheaded Stepchild, and DIAGRAM. She is currently dedicated to ridding the world of comma splices, one college freshman at a time.