Diana Darby ** "I V" ** Intravenous

Acts of Culpability

So, this is how it is.
All my efforts
falling
on
not just deaf,
but severely deaf ears.
The family,
hard at work
casting votes
for their favorite child.
How sweet it is
to be
the one
incapable
of responsibility
for acts of culpability.
Spending run amok.
A closet full of dresses,
sandals,
and handbags,
all with the tags still attached.
Room after room of purchases.
A candy store
sickly sweet
with the smell of new.
A kitchen pantry
stuffed
with exotic teas and oils
from around the world.
A refrigerator imploding
with watermelons,
spinach, goat cheese, lettuce,
lemons, pineapple, and quail,
all growing mold
and rotting
while new deliveries arrive
to take their place.
Can they not see?
The pleas
keep coming,
to offer dollars,
help,
funds,
in her direction.
“She has no one.”
“Don’t be so hard.”
“Do you want her to starve?”
How many times have I heard their arsenal
used against me?
How many times have I been made to be
the hard-hearted one?
Yes,
I admit,
I am the responsible child,
living off rice and beans,
wearing old t-shirts and socks
with holes in them,
saving when I could spend.
But I do not begrudge my thrift.
I savor it.
I thank God
I do not have
her desire,
her disease.
I am satisfied to read
a book
on a couch
with a cup of tea.
Listen to the water lap
at the shore.
Watch minnows in search of sustenance.
Yes,
I am content in my plainness.
But I do not understand why I should be punished
for my mindfulness.
Am I not entitled to enjoy my half of the pie
at my own leisure?
Savor texture and flakiness and fruit ripe with sweetness?
She has wolfed down her half
and now has her eyes set on mine.
And what if I gave in?
In the morning she’d be hungry for more.
And all I would have would be a clean plate.