Tomboy

I remember when archery
was your passion dé jour
and how you stood, bow drawn,
by the Willow tree in our yard.
Taking aim at paper and straw
and how, when your interest waned
for years I kept that long yew bow
and played the Warrior Woman.

 

I remember driving up to Brookhaven
to ride horses through the woods
heavy footfalls, through crisp air 
and foliage that crackled with color.
We were cowgirls, you and I
adventurous women
en route to unknown places.

 

I remember when we lived on the bay
you swimming, long strokes
mermaid mother

in the dark green water
and how that old Evinrude
took us, in stately grace
to Sand Island for picnics
and quests for pirate treasure
we never found.

 

I remember when you drove us 
to Captree, where we fished,
together, from the pier.
And, when I was older, you
bought me that monstrous rod
to search the surf for bass.

 

I remember you saying, 
through the years,
how you would hate
to raise a girl these days,
and how you talked
about playing catch with Grandpa
and going to Ebbets Field
to see the Dodgers play.
Until you became a woman

and they told you 
that all that was over.

 

So was it a kind of freedom
to have only sons?
To play as you once played
until your parents said, 
put your Tomboy self aside,
and become a proper lady.

 

Am I the woman I am
by an accident of birth?
Would you have been the same
if I’d been born a girl?
Would you have bared 
your Amazon soul,
showed me that adventure
is the province of women, too.

 

Or would you, instead,
have cloaked me in old habits
and propriety, taught me 
to forge my own chains
and how to bear

the weight of them
in quiet anger and sympathy
as your mother taught you?