She limps through paradise, sometimes
with an aching heart. Her crutches are dancing
and books. Anything to avoid reality, really.
When she dies, she wants to be able to say this
was a damn good story. With her insufferable
insecurity, she frequently feels frumpy
in the neighborhood of everybody’s fantasies.
Learned modesty might be the trouble here.
She never understood how her unruly
exuberance could be so irritating to others.
The last time she was going to save the world,
many lilacs ago, everybody seemed keen
on talking her out of it. About that time, too,
she fell in love with a world that kept
cautioning her she simply wasn’t good enough—
without even specifying for what. Still,
she keeps applauding stars and junipers
with unrequited adoration because
the moment she is not in love everything hurts.