The Beaten Chest Nest, Poem 2 of 7: Cronus Vs. Hebe (What Christie Wants)

enter the gamblers, wearing

mother’s earrings,

father’s cologne,

sister’s shoes, fearing

not who they are

but who they ought to be;

at this age,

it’s a rite of passage for one

to bet on wild physics horses

and go home sulking; after all,

this is half-time: half-empty, half-grown,

the cusp of a star sign, border patrol officers

sleeping on the job, singers

searching for a woman-girl;

but apparently not

to Christie, who lies awake at night,

little lambs on nursery-rhyme wallpaper watching nervously

as she dives heart-first

into wistful what-if’s; a diamond

served with a kiss

and a cataract, karma

for admiring it for too long; a downtown studio,

paid for each month with corporate blood;

mischievous milestone mirages

shown on television and magazines, optical illusions

of royalty, of wisdom,

laughing gas for morbid truth

and yet, smiling, determined,

with eyes closed; she sees

her hands - outstretched,

ripping out stop signs,

breaking clocks,

bombing bored towns,

marking meadows and fields

for her queendom.