In deference to Freddie Mercury and Queen
I have learned to name the ghosts.
Let’s call this one Freddie—
no particular reason or relation
to Freddie Mercury, though I do love
a good Queen, especially
when nothing really matters,
and fandangoing now and then,
hair wild as the sun and just as spiky
at the edges, has its advantages over
having to play nice and quiet. I am
not one to take up an instrument,
pick the bones of an old guitar, nor can I
hit the high notes anymore—
that was a me that died a long time ago.
But when I need to turn champion,
having paid my dues again and again,
that’s when the spirit takes over,
the way I pretended, as a child,
I had been born a boy instead, told my mother
to chop off my hair, not because I didn’t want
to be pretty, but because I didn’t want
anyone to pull it repeatedly, and if some kid
really did like me, they better buy me flowers
as opposed to hitting me on the playground.
Because if you think that is normal,
if you still believe “they’re just mean to you
because they have a thing for you”
is okay, then you are part of the problem,
and don’t be surprised when your daughters
decide enough is enough, that they themselves
are enough, and they don’t need some version
of the past sneaking up in the dead of night
to validate their anger. The present is plenty
reason to go back to the score, the haunting
of music that reminds us we have committed
no crime, that the only infraction we made
was being who we are at this very moment,
and you can’t jail someone for wanting to win
occasionally. We don’t have to carry a gun
or be the impoverished, unloved ones—
even the demons have decided to take
to the stand this time. Even they are saying
we are right. We deserve better than this.
Katherine Mercurio Gotthardt, copyright May 27, 2024, all rights reserved
Posted in Katherine's Coffeehouse
