The Girls of the 60s Grow Up and Get Married

Posted on 13 February 2010

We march out into the trees
or fly off our balconies, looking for a man,
any man, or maybe over the river
before the jazz band plays on stage.

We open our windows and let the light in
then think of ourselves
as flowers in our own pockets.

We wonder how today happened,
about the noisy fear flying above our heads
offering pennies for sympathy.

Here we are, gaining a million dollars
in rooms filled with pillows.

No one understands our writing
or our hands on that teapot.
The grass has dried
like our hands on the cup
of water, covering the napkin.

We walk out from under the clouds
into the boxes beneath the trees.
We ask, “Why can’t we come along?”

What if I am the only woman about to leave town,
and the shame I felt in the field
is still aiming for the sky of my youth.

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