The end of chivalry.

I've done a lot of things.

I've moved away from being queen of a one-horse town.

I've been to England.

I've earned a degree.

I've had my first failed love,

suitably tragic

nastily defining.

The sort of thing that is supposed to make better poetry.

It does not.





I live a very simple life on a low wage

hoping and waiting to become a scholar,

but hoping more simply to save beyond rent.


I pretend that I am more artistic and bohemian than I actually am,

because I occasionally go dancing in the city,

attend author readings,

and haunt museum hallways on discount days.

I attempt recipes from Julia Child.

I attempt to paint the Virgin Mary--over and over again, faceless every time.

I attempt to absorb the smatterings of theory that I buy in dog-eared copy at musty bookstores.

I attempt to listen to my grandmother's records of Carmina Burana and La Traviata.

In the end, it's my mother's Joni Mitchell--"Blue" at least 3 times for good measure.

I plan a lot of themed parties.



I would like very much to stop being unhappy.

I live a nice little life.

I sing in a lovely little church choir.

I sing in a church with lovely stained-glass windows.

There's a lot that's lovely.

I've done a lot of things.



I try to recollect the days of deadlines and ambition

but nothing retains linear shape.


Cycles.

Days.

Months.
Episodes.



Sometimes I can catch a glimpse of my old self.

She runs and hides.


She knows this:

this world is a beautiful one.

Beautiful.

but not safe.


Aesthetics are not a womb.

I know that now.

Rescues will not grow sinews from your ponderings.

And words won't dress as heroes anymore.

Of course you work in a medium of lost faith.

You would, now, wouldn't you?