You’re Right, Again

by Tamara Proulx

You’re right, again.
Sometimes I think you’re
always right, but I know
you’re not--you sweat,
you mumble in your sleep,
you lick
your lips,
you’re just like the rest of us. I need
to think you’re perfect

because you raised me
to this place of chaos,
and I let you do it, so,
unless I miss my guess,
that makes you my parent. I like

that. It satisfies some of my
early cravings without really
satisfying them; it makes me
want to open myself up, from
forehead to pelvis
and say, “Look at
what you’ve created!”
while smiling all the way

to my ears in congratulations.
Then I’ll say, “Crawl in,”
and when you
do, we’ll
hobble about, one
large being, parent and
child, one naked inside
the other,
naked. It will be
like a marriage
and not like a marriage.
It will be like a life

we could never live.
It will be right
as rain.

© 1998 by Tamara Proulx