Bittersweet, Singing The Opulent, Self-Satisfied Blues
       

Self-satisfied? Yes. Also,
invasive . . .
Even so,
unlike you, I try
to identify my shortcomings.

I want to know what I am, where I intrude,
how overreach,
overwhelm.
                    At least, in theory.

Who isn't
blind to the consequence of just . . .
being what one is?

And if I say I want to know why I do what I do,

looking too steeply into motive
bewilders me.
Bewilderment,
                        that's what wilderness is.

In your world, weeds are pervasive, insidious,
even poisonous . . .

But hey,
if there's a sting to our not being
of horticultural
value,
            well, we repress it.

In my dreams I'm woven into a crown and placed
on the head of a beloved child.

In my dreams I harbor an image of laureate leaves
braided, entwined.

It's not that I'm unaware of the damage I do . . .

but I'm a weed. I have an inborn
aversion to control
that's matched
by my fear of pain,
whether the pain

stems from a sudden yank
or a slow smother.
                                And then there's fire.

I intend to survive.

Give me a garden, I go wild.
A fence
is an invitation,
a tree is a trellis.

Sky's the limit—I hear you say that.

You talk about compassion
for the scorned
and the lowly—
                              you can't fool me.

I know all about blind projection.

It's not so easy to love in another
what one shuns
in oneself,
                      is it?

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Copyright © 2021 Margaret Gibson All rights reserved
from Connecticut River Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission