"Mommy, Mother"

She asks, bewildered, if everything's okay.
Smiling, repeating, "It's not about me."
--Thinks it's dark, scary, threatening.

Shake my head,
talk to a friend,
reconsider my work.

Mommy, Mother riddle me this,
Why does a poem always have to be about
the poet?
When Shakespeare wrote such sonnets,
or plays--do you think he was really a lovestruck Juliet?
Or a green eyed monster?

Sure the concept, maybe.
Everyone has love and lost,
been jealous, out right.

She questions my style, my words in descriptions,
wonders if her daughter wishes to be a man,
I laugh aloud.

Me?
I've thought about it, but that was then,
this is now.

Mommy, Mother,
please stop staring,
I'm not THAT daring.

You won't find me doing heroine,
snorting any pills,
fighting in my head,
crying over anyone at all.

Mommy, Mother,
at least now I know you're listening to words,
not skimming and being absolutely obsurd,
you're just scared,
Put you through a fright, I did!

Mommy, Mother,
didn't I always say,
"No matter who I am, or what I do, I'll always be
you're little girl."?

Now I can say, honestly and true,
I know how to write about anyone,
even you.