Young People Todayby Mary Crockett Hill
Apparently they're having sex and eating non-stop Taco Bell and wearing strange perfumes and t-shirts that proclaim, "Hey you! Wanna have my baby?" And I've considered it and yes I do. I want that blind white tug of baby mouth, the pull of milk as ostentatious as the high note that a diva won’t stop singing. Looking back, I want more of sun and field and blanket, the groundhog who is always twenty feet away, gnawing yard greens and pretending he doesn’t see me so he won’t have to run. In the sense that all pleasures are at root a threat, I want a ship that sails into oblivion, its curtains warbling tra-la, tra-lee and the mercy of horizon beyond reach. I should stop to ask what you want. What is it? Surely not my baby after all. I might guess something between possession and longing —an unfolded sheet of paper, but that would just be guessing. And here, the saying of it, blasphemy? So instead, let's open the quietest part of our hands as we sit and watch the weather tumble into evening. Perhaps you'll take out your spent chewing gum and loll it between your fingers. Perhaps the sky will open its clamorous petals above us and what we don't want to look at will be blurred in the rain. © 2007 by Mary Crockett Hill. All rights reserved.