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.

 

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Artwork by HenriAltersLife

 

 

© Elle Wonders 2009–2016

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