mary mary quite contrary

mary mary quite contrary
how does your garden grow,
with silver bells and cocka shells
and pretty maids all in a row.

women, we dress to impress
with our high heels and short skirt
pretending like we don’t mean to flirt
with the men, the women, the pink umbrella
in our underaged nonalcoholic cranberry juice

a night out with the girls
we pretty maids have
grown out of our mother’s pearls,
we now have our own style
and have learned to reconcile
our hips to shashay left right left right
and oh, we look stunning.

who’s that girl… lalalalala
we come together on the dance floor
look into each other’s eyes and like
a beautiful song our souls begin to harmonize
the beat is moving fast I am forgetting what I lack
hiding in this mask of painted nails and silver bells
and regardless of what our inner subconscious
insecurities have said and whether I dressed up for
me or your or him or her
and whether it took me
15 min. or an hour or 3 and a half hours
to powder my nose for you
I am a pretty maid dancing with my girls.

this moment of bliss reminds me
of the time when we
played Chinese firedrill by the Norfolk train
or the time when we
played that game of freeze out in the rain
or the time when we the time when we
when time fails to change
the sister to sister-
we fell in love with god together
singing at the top of our lungs-
I want to fall in love with you

pulling over to run through
that field of yellow dandelions
crayons melted on the back dash
easy bake oven with the light bulb burnt out
endless spend the nights eating ice cream
when we didn’t count calories and my
out fit didn’t define my identity.
when little girls have no one to impress
because boys have cooties
when faith was real and time stood still

when what he said, she said, doesn’t matter
I have no one to flatter and I am me
dancing on the dance floor
just me and my girls with silver bells and cocka shells
pretty maids all in a row
happy to stand together but shattered when I sit alone.

because when I am alone
there are these wasted nights
with the sound of rain on my window, and I-
bent over my journal, am wrecklessly writing words of doubt
and when I ask myself- am I
pretty enough? slim enough? smart enough?
and when I begin to let
cosmo and seventeen tell me what pretty is
and when I compare the size of my thighs to
hers and hers and her

mary mary you better water your garden or its not gonna grow.

I am standing on quick sand
reaching for your hand, begging acceptance
resisting rejection needing protection from this war in my mind
brought by the beauty of you.
friend, you are beautiful.
elevated to perfection making me feel as though I need correction.
losing hold of what little assurance I never received
not knowing who I am trying to please
or how I will ever fill this need,
Father, oh Father tell me
that I am beautifully and wonderfully made.

when we look to our maker to find our identity
we see our steel magnolias releasing their sweet
smell with angels leaning over them,
whispering grow- grow.
women, we are meant to connect with each other
we are meant to connect, not compete with each other.
soul to soul and love to love.
mary, mary, your garden grows beautifully,.
and so does mine.
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