Better to leave the party first, craving

the drama of an open window, solitude

of a blank page. Spaniels at my heel, we stomp

up the overgrown path, smothering the promise

of June. I ignore peals of laughter from the patio

dodge the murky pond where I drowned

childhood playthings, stagnant water reflects

all I won’t miss. Father’s disapproval, thinly

veiled in a cigar fog of billiards & single malt.

Mother’s quivering ostrich feathers mocking

me with that hateful nickname. My brothers’ filthy

fingers staining sketchbooks with redcurrants

& equations. I scuff sensible shoes against drains

clogged with expectations, clasp my No 2 pencil.

This is the real me - not Prim but proud. Intrepid

sprinter, slowing at the turnstile to curse unforgiving

brogues. Slamming the clumsy gate to stride through

neighboring brambles, refusing to bide time in England’s

yellow kitchens, dreaming of great love affairs, secret

betrayals. Fearsome warrior in jodhpurs & waistcoat

my brown hair unkempt, taming green parakeets atop

marble pergolas, mounting thoroughbreds with celestial

manes. I listen for hyenas chattering in French. By autumn

I’ll prove the party wrong. The spaniels howl as I unlace my shoes.