ecclesiastes (for her mother)

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she stirs.
the lady stirs
beneath the crushing weight of
noble aspirations.
and vain imitations.
her breath cut short
as she is stuck between dusty book ends and
touched in the head
by the plague of envy.
her pillow soiled with disappointments.
Solomon says, no cord of three is she
alone.
wise words from a man who tarried too long
beneath the skirts,
and the gods
of his concubines.

she stoops.
to conquer
these demons of doubt
small as cotton bollweevils
but plentiful.
the patella was not
constructed
for duelling battles
on bended knees.
and she topples over
into soft beds of resignation
lined with nothing less than
300-thread-count Egyptian cotton.
time drops out of her left-handed glove,
as she grieves over
losses deemed trivial by her mother's mothers
and her comfortable surrender, cowardly.

countless hours of Pilates have not prepared her for this!

she staggers.
she tells them, respectfully,
she pleads
that it is all too much for modest shoulders
that do not want to carry anymore,
and selfishly seek
only to be caressed and cared for.
"for with much wisdom comes much sorrow;
the more knowledge, the more grief."
after her confession,
she wades knee-deep through
the solemn frowns of their corn-rowed gardens.
the rich soil soothes her as she kneels
and buries her head.

she stands.
the Rowe of whispers and prayer cycles sung
(by Alanis Morrisette no less)
resuscitate
and too
the blurred words of her God
that she reads without her glasses.
and slowly
she shrugs off the shifting weight
of the demons who take many small bites
as if she were a cheap all-you-can-eat buffet.
they do not chew their meat when they gorge.
they can't even spell her name correctly.
and they swallow their vowels when they speak.
but, under the shelter of her sun
they blister
and evaporate
and her back grows straight
and strong again,
tipping gently
every now and then.