Monday, November 28, 2011

The Matador - A Poem

The Matador

My daughter asks
if her hair looks better up or down,
if she should wear these pants
or the other ones, or maybe
this skirt?

However many times she twirls
the cloth, I foolishly believe
there’s a safe direction,
a pivot or swerve that leads back
to the clover, to the peaceful
humming of bees.

The truth is,
she always looks beautiful.
But I am just her mother,
just a big clumsy animal,

and beautiful is code
for fat, or so she tells me
every morning when we dance
around the ring in this cruel sport,
this time-honored tradition.

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