Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry

Before the Jesuitical age of seven
and revelation of birthright as
privilege to some and
random punishment for others
morality is a brown paper package.

In the playground fairness is taught
then cheating learned.
Teachers and parents pronounce this wrong
that dishonesty will not prosper.

At age 12,
my football team loses the final
to a team from the threadbare suburbs –
two points the margin
a championship winning touchdown ruled invalid
when the linesman, a parent from the opposition
signals our player stepped out, when he hadn’t.

Those who saw protest
hurt and confused
children with Christmas presents stolen
before first light
the referee is stern : “the flag was up.”
The linesman pretending all is well, looks away.

Our coach says he was unsighted
but sometimes
people make the wrong choice, for the right reason.

Many winters later, the woman before
the one I would spend my life with
marries unhappily and needs a friend
I pretend all is well and look away
The wrong choice, for the right reason.

Everybody has one
a year
that seemed made for us
or, if omniscient, we would make for ourselves
one, which in certain moments
we might wish again.

1981 was like that.
I vaulted my exams without strain
with height to spare
got laid
without consequences or commitment
fitted my cohort
made friends and
no enemies
was invited to all the parties
and found out about none
later.

Even the weather was good
autumn impersonated summer
precocious spring and
tamest winter memory could recall.
A good year
I was 21 – perhaps it was that.

It was three years before The Vagina Monologues
I wondered if I’d heard correctly
then I didn’t. I had.
There it was
out loud
the word : plural
“ tell your cunts to cover their heads.”

She had a point.
It was a hospital kitchen
and
they had been getting a little slack about hair nets.
It may have been directed at me
a male island, in a sea of 37 women
a warning I wasn’t being tough enough
that things were on the slide.
Or not to let them be.

I confided in another department head
they weren’t surprised
then added benediction, “ she’s really scrubbed up her language”
apparently when Theatre Supervisor
the air was blue most days – all day.

Still, imagine the headlines
male assistant manager
of exclusive private hospital
points to a group of middle aged women and
barks at female catering manager
“ tell your cunts to cover their heads.”