The Rules
by Jean Hendrickson
Poetry Best of Theme
There was a time, long after I should have learned,
when I dared not deviate from what Mother said.
I took her prejudices
and wove them into my hair like blossoms
wore them like raiment;
pressed them between the convolutions
of my thoughts.
Mother taught with a toss of her head,
a thinning of her lips, the set of her jaw.
She taught with muttered slurs,
her rigid stance
a turning away.
Mother said
girls with long hair are cheap
girls with short hair, mannish
girls without girdles, loose
artistic girls, deluded
athletic girls, unfeminine
smart girls, unattractive
popular girls, immoral
pretty girls are stuck-up.
Catholics are strange
Jews, beyond the ken
"Negroes" and Mexicans
are dumb and dirty.
Mother's rules were hard and glossy as anthracite.
One day, I walked out of Mother's house
into a sweet spring,
where I watched the lazy swell of waves,
heard blaring horns
and tatters of music blown on the breeze,
saw men and women with their arms around each other,
happy children with dirty faces
and the conceit of sunrise.
I saw an uncorsetted girl
with flowing curls, rouge
and an artist's palette
under her plump, bare arm.
I saw a boy, shirt untucked,
who sang a raucous love song
Out Loud.
I smelled Thai food and Mexican food and Cajun food,
Chinese, Italian, Japanese and Indian food,
Kosher food
and soul food
and I breathed and ate and sang
until I was full.
BIO: Jean Hendrickson lives on the banks of the beautiful Chesapeake Bay. Her poems, short stories, and essays have been published in Powhatan Review, Roux Magazine, NO O Journal, Portfolio Magazine, and in several other print and online journals. She is one of the happiest people anyone knows, and is pretty silly about it. This is somewhat defensible since she's a retired professional clown. EMAIL: ergosum100@cox.net