You thought that we were all alike,
predestined for career and spouse;
Like a child’s drawing of a house,
all windows and doors and no room inside
for your families and thoughts; oh you
poor stupid fool. Too old to be young,
and too young to be old. Does it hurt
when it turns out that to be a singer
you need more than to hit the right note?
Learning by rote the cadences of your
mother’s well-tuned voice, standing
in your father’s footprints, carved into
the long-fallen snow; there is no split
in the forest road. There is nowhere else
for you to go.