“You oughta be a lawyer,” Mama said;
“the way you always argue” she would add.
She meant no compliment, but sought instead
to quiet and suppress me. Even Dad
who seemed to like me aimed to modify
my passion, my exuberance and voice.
“Don’t shout,” he would admonish. “You should try
for better self-control. It’s your own choice.”

So I confronted less. I learned to screen
my judgments and complaints more than they thought.
Alone I threw some hangers and I cursed.
Within my room, I nurtured harsh and mean
ideas, and over time my theories wrought
in poetry conveyed my best and worst.