by Anne Graue
I sat muted in a waiting room, stared at mauve and teal
paintings framed in un-brilliance, the desk Formica. The phone
rang—no ring tones in ‘82—not quite silence, glances not too close—
I knew her—she went to my high school—we both waited.
When is a raven like a writing desk?
I hate riddles! They follow a maddening logic. The Mad
Hatter and March Hare sit at court, judging. The dormouse asks,
Would you like some more tea?
How can I have more when I haven't had any?
Rabbit's fur is softer than anything I’ve ever touched.
The act of choosing is easy, and there
in that room tears fell like a solution
and control. Recover, reset the clock.
I'm late! No, I got there just in time.
Anne Graue exercised her right to choose in 1982, a private decision that was right for her at the time. She is a poet who believes in personal choice and privacy and that there are times when some things need to be public. She wishes for freedom of choice for her daughters—for all daughters.
