Ching-In Chen
You too can be clean, scraped
by habit. I can also be manufactured, shaped
to fill a lung on a summer night. There's a bit of mean girl
scrubbed into you, growing by the wave. A habit is a plate I leave
my children. The manufactured mean girls, shaped
like silhouettes, are cliches. You grow into them, realizing you don't belong
in this domain of hip, waist, elbow. These elbows, inherited down a long, clean line.
You include me out of habit. I sometimes accept, open my mouth
and watch what comes out. We teach each other
until the children. They are messy and mean. We can't control
them. We wish that the mean girls
would listen to us, take our advice
under wrap. There are feelings being collected
out in the lawns. They might be expected
until they arrive to be pushed
away. I want a ladder, anything but metal. Splinter-free
and less perfect. If there is sunlight, I imagine there are only a few more
hours. It still goes by, no matter what we say.