My mother, the goddess of cliches,
was overly fond of repeating that
“There’s a place for everything, and
everything should be in its place.”
I must admit that, in addition to hating
her cliches and platitudes, I grew ever
less certain of my place in her world.
She was more than willing to assume
my utter lack of tidiness was just one more
sign of rebellion, one only slightly
more tolerable than her assumption
of my drug use, though she had me
a stoner, never acid or mescaline.
I tried, and repeatedly failed, to convince her
that things would be where they wished,
that such was their place, and she
just had to accept everything was
always and already in its place.