“My high school teacher said we can’t have an original idea till at least our masters,” said the listener in her eager smile and notecards…
“Oh goodness! Not even then!”
We go on learning what a thesis is,
As we did ten years ago—
Little children learning to write
—still there—
Learning to follow.
“What are you going to do with a Philosophy major??”
So lecture me, lecture me, medaled god,
Till the womb has nothing to give.
Pride in our rebel push-up bra,
But look at us—
too scared to move.
Too young, until we’re too old
* gasp *
“You’re not going to grad school?!?!”
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