Permission
By M.E. Mishcon
I can be as old as I want,
allow joints to stiffen,
hear them crack, rattle
like maracas, observe
empyreal markings,
from thumb to index
finger, lined up like
the belt of Orion.
I can process what once
baffled, went unnoticed,
shrug off offenses that
enraged, engaged temper.
I can forgive, move on.
I can be brilliant as noon
sun or dark as that space
behind the boiler. I can be
wizened or puffy, pretty or not
be bothered. I can inspire,
interest or melt into ether,
becoming nothing but mist.
My voice can be heard
pealing above the throng,
or flinty below the bellowing.
I can stand in this square
of my own making, being all
that I am, knowing that even,
if not quite hip, heedless hits
thumbs up or down,
polls be dammed.
I can make soup with
nothing but water and
whatever is left. I can
fix broken things. Laugh
when it’s hard to smile,
dance, stretch, lift, carry,
ache, sleep, wake. I can
read, write, listen, clean,
sob and stand with others.
I know how to be split
open, have a human
wrested from my center,
can clear a line, spirit
through crags and fog
a Sherpa. I can be alone,
or a companion when you
can’t stand to be alone.
I can be desirable,
objectionable, dependable.
I can be a gurl, guy, both
neither, pious, irreverent,
devout, respectful. I can be
trusting, suspicious, funny,
frugal, and generous.
I can be who I am.
And here’s the thing...
So can you.
