For Margo, Demented:

   Patterns and fiskers and A/C dialers
and bible study and medications and
skin cream for those bags under her

eyes. She wants to see my breasts, 

just the nipples. She wants to compare
tummy sizes and thighs. She wants
to teach me about make-up and
pubic hair. She wants me to grow
up ugly, but agreeable. She relishes

my quirky nature in public at 

family outings to the boat ramp

shrimp basket and wonders why

my bikini is still on the rack. She 

wants me to believe in the god that 

gave her implants. She wants me to 

pronounce it Tray-SHOOR and sing 

her Celine Dion before bed. She wants

a kiss on my mouth as it wails 

"I Surrender" on the home video

retirement fund infomercial. She 

wants release, respect. She wants

submission to her mischief, and 

more family outings. 

    She wants to claw my 

scalp and the curve of my back 

skin with french-manicure. She wants 

me to like it. She wants to highlight 

my hair, and change my clothes. 

She wants to bathe me and feel me

squeeze her wrist between every 

part of me. She wants to pinch 

my first zit, adjust my first bra, 

holster my first weapons and put

the fear of my husband in my 

mouth with hand soap and wooden 

spoons. She wants to blow my 

nose when she cries. She wants to 

hold my hand when she 

laughs. She wants me to drive. She 

tells me men crave a 

vanilla-scented

young lady 

who knows

her body

time 

and place mats. 

She tells me dinosaurs never existed.