Wednesday, May 28, 2014

New Poem-- Rebels


My eight-year-old son and I stand in front
of the microwave in our kitchen, waiting
for our popcorn. His coarse hair hangs in his eyes,
earned him the nickname Rock Star in second grade.
The bell finally dings. He opens the door, grabs
the bag and tears it, steam pouring out. His mouth
drops open, eyes clench, hands shaking. When he
catches my glance, his lips clamp shut. Steam burns hurt,
I say. He shrugs, says, S’not that bad. I keep myself
from rolling my eyes. Already he shows signs
of needing to look tough: refuses to wear a coat,
argues with me at every chance, sides with his
sisters. I’m single, feel like the enemy, outnumbered.
My kids are from different eras of my life:
party girl, college girl, career woman. All three
are from never willing to be tamed. How can I expect
them to conform when I never have? My son and I
sit on the floor, share popcorn, argue over whether
to watch a movie or Sponge Bob, settle on
Artist Unknown for the umpteenth time, because
when it comes to my kids—I crumble like paper.

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