When She's Eighteen:
A Pantoum

My thumb traces the sumi rat,
its haunch an ink comma
round as an apricot half,
inhabiting strokes on a book cover.

Haunches, inky commas,
and I don't sleep, while oracles
come to life from a book's cover,
jump along my knuckle and a rafting hand.

I don't sleep, seeking oracles.
Index finger arrows to a random page;
I await magic to jump the knuckles, raft my hand -
justifications plagiarized into omens.

My index arrows a page
and I don't weep when the rodent leaps -
my justifications vault into omens
and up my sleeve tucks, gnaws my cuff, bears a litter.

I don't weep when the rodent leaps,
because a man waits,
too, like a mouse up my sleeve, bearing his litter
of expectations: in another twelve years.

A man waits, too sure, says
"When she's eighteen, I'll buy my trailer -
no expectations until I get there -
head west; leave my blinker on all the way.

"When she's eighteen, drive my trailer west,
where you'll be waiting;
laugh to see my blinkers on
and wipers clicking counterpoint."

I'll not be waiting.
Our summer illusion chafed,
rubbing counterpoint to his children's needs:
Wednesday ice cream, football Friday, Barbie shoes.

This summer's illusion chafed
as a too-small ring upon my finger.
He missed ice cream on Wednesday, football on Friday
and cried when he spoke of his youngest daughter.

There's a silver ring on my finger
I sometimes swing on a pendulum,
try not to cry when I think of his daughter,
or consult any handy oracle.

My mood sometimes swings on a pendulum,
arcs round like halves of an apricot.
Downswing, I consult any handy oracle,
upswing, my thumb traces the rat.

Eve Hanninen