Taking everyone's commentary into consideration, this is what I came up with. ~ Laura
When I was fifteen, she slurred,
a withering smile was all I could supply
to a world where two hills –
the last lumps of terrain –
started and stopped in the courts
of Madame Alexander, Ashton Drake, and Franklin Mint.
With their genteel faces painted,
organized by height and expense,
they ruled in a land
where flypaper horses stung
propelling steers across rivers of asphalt and creosote.
Before I could be reported a phony
by 358 pairs of marble spies,
I chose the pasture beyond the main house.
The stale incense of manure
on a frayed bridle and leather bound hay
offered the only escape
to the annual week of expected resignation.
Duty obliged. Honor called.
Still,
allowing the heat to slither
through the irises and saran wrap the lungs
in dust was preferable
to the frozen image of porcelain
I knew I was never going to be.
I was too much my Brooklyn mother!
I wanted to careen through the bottled tourmaline
and, like a phone line
under duress...
snap.
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