Prayers to the God of Convention
By Ieisha McIntyre
Squeeze me into normal.
Even if the shoes pinch, and
The bra straps dig into my shoulders, and
Make the sweat pool up against the creases
Underneath my breasts, squeeze.
Cinch in my waist.
Make me size 6 normal and taught.
Pull taut, my waist and expanse of mind,
And give me pleasure in the common fare.
Stop me from scribbling outside the lines,
And give me paint-by-number rules.
I’ll use the corresponding colors and place them
In the right spots to make the allocated image.
Squeeze me into normal.
Give me the boyfriend who wants marriage and 2.5 kids
And suburban wonderful unconscious,
And enriched white bread culinary, mall pretzel Saturdays, Squeeze.
Bring me the promised exhale of pension and homeownership,
Secure healthcare, affordable babysitter, and retirement in my 50’s.
It is my bounty as the rightful assassin of my dreams.
I carried out the prescribed order and followed through on the demand.
Leave no incriminating evidence of crime and no trace of the dream refugees
Who hid beneath my acceptable demeanor and conventional garb.
I was the assassin who followed through on the hit put out on my dreams.
I let the years tick by afraid to risk their release.
Desperate, they were flung loose by tragedy and trauma.
As wild things will do,
Threw themselves full-bodied against the fences.
Some lying on the wire as sacrifice so that others might live.
I was the assassin and I claim my bounty.
Squeeze. Squeeze me into normal.
All Rights Reserved © 2009
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
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