I rebuke you, poor performance,
in the name of all success that ever was
and may (or not) buoy, anchor, or barnacle
and I cast you in the Sea of F*ckYouNess.
Owned. I am not convinced
that is a descriptor that will suit
and so it, too, to the Sea.
When I was a girl, I mean younger
as I have always been female, on this
side of the flood,
I gave birth a million times
as a teenager with names like
Cathy and Raisin in my notebook
and tattered sketchpads
as it seemed
such an easy caricature
I had no aspirations then
and thought that left me
without questions too.
An invocation for the day:
Let no shade find you
without the comfort of your own shadow
and swim far, fishy. That Sea you spy
is smaller (and closer) than you think.