Daughter, take this. The most powerful word
on Earth is no. Hold it in between your teeth
like a kernel. Another word: Sorry. Hold that one
under your tongue, let it dissolve like cotton candy.
Here, say I am worthy. Here, say empowered.
When your brothers complain about the volume
of your voice, remind them silence is an imposter.
Remind them that your life is a carnival and screaming
on roller coasters is non-negotiable. Listen to me
if you are too scared to ride and I will say, good thing
you are so strong. Here, take another—
enter lines, reach your arms to the moon
when you get to the top of the climb,
let ambition outlast the balloon you release
in the sky. One day, someone will say this rising
is unacceptable. Someone will say you should not
wear your hair this way, should not read so much,
should not be so kind or smart, should blend,
wear more makeup, cut your shirt low and suddenly
you are upside down on the Graviton, spiraling.
You get off that ride, dizzy and wrecked, and I’ll press
these words into your palm, long strips you can tear
at the seams, granting access to those high rides.
And as you ascend from blurred crowds below,
they will swallow the voice that floats, belonging
only to your throat’s thrilling rise.
Tara Iacobucci is a poet and mother of three living in the Boston area. She teaches English and writing at a high school. Her poetry has recently appeared in Mothers Always Write and The Bangalore Review.