Slamming the door open

“…and there’s something I want to do about the suburbs…”
No!
That’s mine!
You got your magnum opus from your murdered daughter! It’s my turn now!

And no no no no no no please don’t murder my daughter!

Let my suburban poems be about
Me
The Murdered Daughter,
O please o please o please o please
let the metaphor be enough!

After all,
in my teary teenage grief
didn’t I refer to my mother as
Medea?

Was that not a metaphor?
Didn’t a huge part of me
a huge part of us all
Die?

Were we all not murdered?
By a ruthlessly horny father,
Zeus himself
disguised as a pharmacist turned pot smoking cliché of
Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice through the looking glass?
And before he killed all of us,
didn’t Medea slay her children
to show him
that she loved him
above all others
and her children
not at all?

O
give me not the grief of child death!

Don’t make me bargain;
I already
lost.

medea

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