Annabelle
My mom’s had to work hard
because she’s a single mom.
That term always makes me imagine
that other people have double moms
or triple moms—a string of moms
stuck together like those paper cut-outs
we used to make in kindergarten.
My mom says she’s a woman surviving in a man’s world,
which means she has to be careful about how she dresses
and acts at work, where mostly men get promoted.
She wears two-piece suits and pointy-toed shoes,
and carries a leather briefcase full of stats
on house sales, interest rates, and mortgages.
She smiles at meetings while the men crack dirty jokes
and loosen their ties because they can let their hair down,
while hers has to be impeccably cut and streaked.
My mom says it’s a disgrace that I don’t take care of my face.
She buys me creams and lotions to clear my skin
even though she knows I don’t play that game.
I hate the way girls fool themselves
by using eye liner and mascara, as if
popularity comes in a tube.
She says one day I’ll have to learn to play the game
like she does every day, preparing for battle,
putting on her armour, layer by layer.
But I know I won’t because that’s
not the kind of life I want:
corporate.