All my plans for liberation are
believable, until I inform my mother.
“Italy? What will you do when your period
comes? You’ll be on the first flight home.”
This is true, I know, so I say nothing.
What my family refers to as my Anne Frank Days
still hang between us like half-washed laundry –
the drops of soapy water battering the parquet floor.
A clothesline full of sorrow, dark circles
and hollow cheekbones.
I just wanted to ride a vintage blue bicycle
down a dirt road lined with arching trees,
while wearing a beret. Or maybe that is France?
Yes! I could escape to Provence, live among
the rows of lavender, and be willing to try new foods.
That would show her.
© Elle Wonders 2009–2016