They took their baby to the oracle
down by the river bank, under the bridge,
who said, "Your daughter is too serious,
well, not too serious, but serious,
which in the world's eyes is too serious."
They tore their hair and sank their frantic souls
and savings into schools and counselors.
She learned the daintihoods of lady-lite:
to curl her certainties with "I don't know,"
to bounce her questions on a lilt of tongue,
to add a smiley to each thank-you note.
They laughed to see their fear fizzle away.
One day she fell into a brouhaha
at the train station, with a stranger—well,
what of it? No one heard or saw the scene
except her tutor, who penned down her shouts
in some blue diary, filled otherwise
with canny formulas and apothegms.
She shook it off as she had learned to do,
travelled to her exam, which she had meant
to pass just barely, but excelled upon,
a thing to laugh about, to dine over,
to raise a raucous glass to, as the glint
fizzles into the deep encaving fear.
Years later, months of quest carried her to
the oracle, who took her in his arms,
invited her to stay the afternoon,
and then fell mum. There on the table lay
a pencil and a sharpener. She took
and worked them in her hands, amazed by the
ringlets of falling wood. She saw sideways
his own eyes fixed upon the gleaming point
that grew more starry with each shave of dross,
which fell and fell. Snapping out of his daze,
he swallowed twice, as if about to speak,
but she had risen to the truth and gone.