This poem is a wild ride well worth a car trip. The life that is embedded in the story through the images and dialogue is wonderful. The mother and daughters are very familiar as well as the conflicts inherit to family and writing dilemmas. Enjoy!
Mother Lets Off a Little Steam J. Allyn Rosser
I don’t know how I’m expected to get anything done
with these two constantly at odds, cranky sisters
in the backseat on a long ride to the wrong place.
Muse wants the Tunnel of Love on a roller coaster,
and to be spirited there on something more elegant
than a carpet. She’d better marry rich, is all I can say.
Truth wants a deserted rest area with a flat rock to sit on.
I’m not kidding. This is what she’d like the most.
A view of flat rock from a seat of flat rock.
There’s a scuffle. “Do I have to stop this car or what?”
But I’m going seventy, we’re late, it’s rush hour,
there’s no berm to stop on and they both know it.
Muse pops up in the rearview, rhinestone ruby shades
bouncing painful darts of light into the corner of my eye.
“I have to go again,” she hiccups. It’s a ruse.
She wants, as always, a new gewgaw, a rainbow slurpee,
or one of those impossible-to-lick seriously huge lollipops.
Her candy breath reaches and nearly sickens me.
Whereas Truth is so stolid, so smugly abstemious,
it makes you want to shake her hard, knock the wiser-than-
you-know gaze askew, disturb the pristine implacability
of those conspicuously ringless hands folded in her lap.
Placid as a cow in the shade on a hot day.
Oh I love them, you know, but on days like this—
Sit down,” Truth says, levelly. “Try and make me!”
In terms of strength you wouldn’t want to put your money
on Muse. Truth has always been a good eater,
fond of climbing outdoors. Built like a moose.
Her sister craves exotic sauces and chocolate,
and some weird combinations of tart and savory,
but try getting her to eat one pea. One grain of plain rice.
She’s slight in form but tricky, reckless, unpredictable,
and in certain situations this defeats Truth,
who simply has to be right about everything.
So in spite of her years and her methodical,
relentless scrutiny, she often misses the point.
Meanwhile her sister will just up and blurt something
that at first makes no sense, but then it turns out
to be astonishingly right, the more you think about it.
That’s what really ticks off Truth, when we say
“the more you think about it.” Her eyes narrow
and her face just sort of shuts down. You pity her then.
She likes her facts neatly stacked on the table.
Muse shrugs a lot, changes sides like a fish,
isn’t fazed by paradox. I think she thrives on it.
“Sit,” Truth says again, “DOWN.” “Why should I,
you’re jealous because I’m taller than you.”
“You are not,” “Am too.” “Are not.” “My head
almost touches when I stand but you have to stoop,
so I’m taller.” “No way,” “My eyes are higher. See?”
There is a muffled thump. “Don’t make me stop this car,”
I say stupidly, but else can I do? Muse snickers,
Truth snorts softly. I can’t help it, I keep going,
“I’m never taking the two of you with me anywhere
ever again!” “Okay,” says Truth. “Fine with me,”
Muse sings out. Now they’re in league I can’t win.
They know perfectly well that without Muse there is no vehicle
without Truth no road.
Women Writing Birmingham 