Petunia
A poem about a girl
The baby, born that day
achieved girlhood within hours.
It is a modern miracle, said the papers
but what does it mean? They asked
Special diet?
What is the baby’s gender?
Did you eat vitamins during the pregnancy?
Do you wear clothing
to cover your depraved nakedness?
Who, in other words, is the baby’s father?
God, she replied. But she was lying, of course
Because what would that mean?
God. Ridiculous.
In the darkness of their studio apartment
the girl developed breasts, pubic hair
started to menstruate, and expressed
a desire to meet boys at school.
Absolutely not, said her mother.
You are one day old, and I’ll not have you
parading around like a slut.
God frowned. A million people give or take died
without a whimper.
The press moved on.
Meanwhile, in the apartment,
the girl asked for a name. Her mother, in turn,
asked God, who did not answer.
Petunia it is then, her mother said. Luckily
Petunia tried on her (rather slutty) clothing
and it set off her dark hair and ebony skin nicely.
Petunia lay awake and aged as her mother slept, whereupon
she died, just before dawn.
Her mother jolted awake
aware as only a mother could be of
her daughter’s passing. She cried
watching as her daughter’s body disintegrated
disappeared into nothingness, leaving
a tiny bright spot for a few hours
gathering intensity and then extinguishing itself.
Then it was time for lunch.
God sent pizza
sat down with her and commiserated. In all
it was a good day.
