Hour Seven: What’s Normal?

I normally don’t use the word.

I mean, how could I?

Whose standards, yours or mine?

Whose conventions, society’s or family’s?

Definitions slide off a palm like silken scarves,

the meaning lost in context.

Two years ago, we hugged,

two years later, I peered at you,

searching your eyes,

fearing the demons within.

Once, if you loved too much,

you went to jail.

Now, your hate prison corners you.

And truth your mother taught you

turn lies to the spring winds,

shifting, like the dying fall leaves.

Chameleon, snakeskin shed,

twist of fate, kiss of death,

what do you call it?

It’s the new new, old as time.

What’s normal?



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