At thirteen
I used to aspire for nothing more
than MC Escher’s pristine patience
Those hands that turn graphite into water
And make mirrors out of every perfect line.
It took dropping out of art school
To realize I can’t abide by straight lines
That too often I make curls by pulling on straight hairs
Teasing out truths until mediocrity
became a fashionable something worth offering the world
And yet, many do not know of Escher’s rough sketches,
His black and white crayon renditions of the world
Made on rough cardboard with outlines
Imperfectly set, yet implied lines of good intentions
I was taught that I could never achieved such same diligence
Said, I played with my hair too much
Instructed me to cut out the things that distracted me
To pay attention to what mattered more
I thought shaving my arms and legs
Would make me appear more calmly
That cutting back my curls would encourage me
To focus on what mattered more
Instead of wondering
if Escher’s crayons
Ever became dull,
ever broke
Ever wandered away from his hands
Wondering if Escher could only draw
Lines of endless, tedious hallways
When his hair was combed back neatly?
but no matter what
hair seems to only grow back the same way
That without it there is nothing
more revealed about the complicated self