Pervert
Her mother is sure the
Internet has discovered she
is a pervert. She has looked for pictures
most lewd and unwholesome—
She has knowingly shopped around
for sinful leather pants
and silver chains to ornament her wrists:
for this the Internet has judged her.
And found her wanting, truth be told;
there’s nothing in her soul but
desperate love, guilt, and a fondness
for smooth, tight trousers and metal bracelets.
Then the fear sets in—now we know
of her reprehensible predilection
and I will never again be able to eat her cooking
without thought of her deviance
and her dear sainted daughter (guilty
of a thousand deliciously secret indignities
plus more that she and I haven’t thought of
yet) will somehow think less of her.
It is a balancing act at which she plays,
between this and the terror that stays lodged
in her chest at Europe’s imminent collapse.
As the continent goes, so does her livelihood.
Later she’ll leave the television on to drown
herself to sleep, still huddled against our
imagined distaste. I suppose she is better off
fearing the imaginary than the unknown.
