I have begun to explore some genealogy and have had my DNA tested. Now that I have dozens of questions to ask my ancestors, only one of them survives. I guess I’ll be writing more creative non-fiction. By reading and writing poetry, I come to terms with my obsessions. www.JoanMazza.com
To those who said I was too young to marry,
You were right.
To teachers who told me I could work harder,
Yes. My mistake.
To my ex-husband, who found me insensitive,
but had no words to express his needs and worries,
I was too young. I didn’t understand. I was
a long way from growing. I’m sorry.
To my first dog who spent long days alone,
chewing under my bed,
I’m sorry. I needed you and didn’t realize
how long those days were for you.
To my former shrink, to whom I handed the key
to my life, who gave me bad advice about men,
who borrowed money and isolated me
from my friends and family,
I was a fool to fall for your fake training,
a sheep to think you knew what was good
for me. I was a patsy, sucker, mark. You saw
how much I could pay while you played
puppeteer. Can you ever say you’re sorry?
How wrong I was for far too long.
We learn from our mistakes. We plunge in
without first toe-testing, ready to retreat,
and we come up gasping, swim to shore.
We discover buoyancy, deep currents.
We buy a snorkel, take the long way home.
Or we drown. Some days, regret is quicksand.
Some days, I still can’t catch my breath.
© 2017 Joan Mazza
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