I have no memory of why I wrote this poem. But it has the theme, like much of my writing, about how unfortunate it is that we're boxed into categories. I hate that my status of 'mother' makes me seemingly incapable of other things now, like being sexy or racy. I hate that being book-smart means you can't be worldly; I hate that classical music and hard rock are different worlds when some people thrive in both. I could go on. But hey, I've got the poem. I still agree with myself, so that's something, right?
Right Hand Girl (7/23/02)
Without any warmth on my body's right side
I am cold I am lost I am sad petrified
and never did I lose much sleep when I cried
I did it, I did it for love
As cold as the grave on a September night
I let myself bathe in the cool camera light
and I tell you I never once thought it was right
but I did it, I did it for love
I never cared much for the beige and the gray
when the pictures were color always anyway
I snuck out the back door, just to run away
even though there was nothing but love
Indecent and crude and entitled to be
Could I be all that, and also be me?
If I never find out I will never be free
What is it, instead, that I love?
I did all my headstands like good little girls
I traded my freedom and watched it uncurl
But now when I turn back to my right-hand girl
I do it, I do it for love