Everybody's Favorite Aunt

flaming peach and the rest of the litter.

I dont know why I have this aversion to children. well not all children really. the only children that I can tolerate in this lifetime would be my three nephews(see photo above). that's about it. they're the only children i know that can make me give up both of my kidneys to ensure their happiness. otherwise, anything that is below four-feet, drinks milk from a feeding bottle and has a hard time pronouncing my name, i steer clear of.

i used to think that marriage and having kids of my own is the be-all and end-all of my life. as part of the propaganda that my mother and the institution, that i call my high school, instilled in me when i was young, that was my ultimate goal in life: find a good husband, bear and raise his kids and that's it.

but i didn't want to. i know i didn't.

the more i grew up, the more i'm around children, the more i'm certain that i didn't want one. that i would never want one.

call it selfish, call it immature but having children is not an insurance for happiness or security or pain. pregnancy is an arrogant decision. how else would you call undertaking responsibility for something which you're not sure of? it sounded so much like abdicating your control...the usurpance of your life and territory.

i'll never be ready for that. all i can envision myself 10, 20 or 50 years from now includes a red pen for marking papers and a black pen for writing syllabi and lesson plans. maybe i'd still be in love with the same person i would have been in love with when i reach the age of 25.

but for now, i'd settle on being someone's favorite aunt.

- - -

Empty
by Erica Mann Jong
Every month,
the reminder of emptiness
so that you are tuned
to your bodyharp,
strung out on the harpsichord
of all your nerves
& hammered bloody blue
as the crushed fingersof the woman pianist
beaten by her jealous lover.
Who is she?
Someone I invented for this poem,
Someone I imagined.....Never mind,
She is me, you~tied to the bodybeat,
fainting on the rack of blood
moving to the metronome~empty, empty, empty.
No use.
The blood is thicker
than the roots of trees,
more persistent than my poetry,
more baroque than her bruised music.
It gilds the sky about the Virgin's head.
It turns the lilies white.
Try to run:the blood still follows you.
Swear off children,
seek a quite roomto practice your preludes & fuges.
Under the piano,the blood accumulates;
eventually it floats you both away.
Give in.
Babies cry & music is your life.
Darling, you were born to bleed
or rock.
& the heart breaks
either way.