It should be Margaret Meade

leaving her barely palatable threesome

to figure it all out for me.

I don’t live on the banks of the Orinoco:

these rocks on the bottom are

all paved and worn with ruts.


I do want to know why

my brown eyes turned green after

fifty years, why Ancestry DNA needs

my saliva.  Is there really no

First Nation in my children

or Swede in my black hair?


Come on, Margaret, crawl out

of that anemic bed and learn

my language, that secret ceremony

that should save me, again, again,

and never does.  Tell me the meaning

of rituals I always answered with yes.


Why is time suddenly the last button

on a dress shirt; the half-ripped

left back jean pocket; I’m naked

wading to my waist in muddy

water, leeches threatening.

Just look at me, write it down.


by Karen Vande Bossche


Karen Vande Bossche has been writing poetry and short stories for decades. Some recent work can be found at Damfino and Damselfly. Karen is a hard core Pacific Northwest inhabitant who believes that sun is best delivered in liquid form.

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