I love my mother but—
Never a moment’s peace,
Never a moment’s privacy,
Never a thought of my own.
No, it’s always, do this, do that
Braid your hair,
does your gown reach your ankles,
Be respectful to Zeus
(although He’s arrogant)
Kiss your auntie Athena
(although She hates that).
Last night at dinner—
Barley soup and bread,
Also known as blah and boring—
I told her, I’m not a child anymore.
She knocked over her cup of nectar
Weeping, you’ll always be my child.
I said, we already have drama deities,
Apollo and Dionysus put on the plays—
And you never let me see them.
Look, I’m serious.
I want to travel,
I want to learn,
I want to flirt with the sons of Helios.
I even sent a job application to the Hesperides,
The daughters of Atlas who guard the golden apples.
They need a recording secretary
Who can also change the dragon’s litter box.
My mother ran out of the room.
Wouldn’t listen.
Typical.
But today I’ll relax for a while
And go with my friends
The daughters of Oceanus
To the park,
Where we’ll sing and dance
And talk about boys.
It’ll be a good day.
