A poem I wrote to a friend.

For Maria,
on your 34th birthday

I think about how it seems
that our lives parallel.
How often we must be thinking the same thing,
or doing the same thing.

And I think…maybe it’s not just us.
Maybe it’s every woman,
always the same pusuits—
love
family
friends
a career.

With each endeavor,
we hope beyond all other hope
to not have to sell our soul
like we’ve been asked to do
so many times before.

We’ve sold our souls
for men
for jobs
for our children
and each time that our soul
is the price, things end badly.

Perhaps all of those times
only strengthen us—
get us to the point
where we know exactly what we want
because we now know everything
we don’t want,
everything we will no longer do.

Once we meet
people worthy of us,
who don’t demand a sacrifice,
who will accept who we are
only then can our fractured soul fully repair.