this manic platitude constrains my
soul with whispered screams
and dreams of scenes of consternation
and little girls emulating their mothers,
writing christmas cards to vague
acquaintances and visiting quaint
bric-a-brac shops for burlap sacks
adorned with flowers and crosses,
filled with flip-flops, Tupperware and potpourri,
eating panini bread and drinking a latte
they fashion themselves
after the cherry blossom flattened