Susan.
My name is Susan.
I was a nice 1950s schoolgirl once
To my father; the namesake
Of a dear friend to my mother.
And so, I am Susan.
But I am neither of these
Ideals.
Susan, the lily, my name says.
But I am not:
Not, a white bloom,
Too pure and too slender,
Masked with frigid clarity.
No, my Susan is
The shy and spindly clematis
In my mother’s hectic garden.
Though close to the joyful daisies
And flopping pansies,
It stands alone.
Last year, the blushing petals
Fainted with weariness
On a stifling summer’s day.
It was a battle that
No flower,
No girl,
Could have claimed her own.
Yet now, I think,
The petals are opening this very moment.
It clings to the wall
And dances up the chimney
To the sky. The flower is
Susan,
And so am I.