Author’s note: This poem is a continuation of the Transimus Maximus storyline. In spoken form, it seems to hold up. I’m not so sure about the written form. Who knows. Jacques Derrida has no power at ourladymetamagic.net. I am The Lady. I weave the magic here.
Editor’s note: Quit being such a pretentious bitch, Author. Dear readers, please enjoy the poem while I roll my eyes.
Transimus
Maximus
~:TrinitY:~
[the way of the blade]
a poem by
Brandi K.L. Prime
How could I have known?
How could you not have?
We both told you.
For the sake of argument, let’s say it’s all true.
“For the sake of argument?” What?
Mommie Dearest knows best, Amy.
If you’re going to be like that, I can just leave.
If we’re going to be like what?
Honest about our feelings, OBVIOUSLY.
If you’re going to be uncooperative.
Are we uncooperative or are you unprepared?
Ms. Karen here didn’t read about us in “How to Win Friends and Influence People”.
Uncooperative as in getting off topic!
And don’t talk about me!
I’m right here!
And another thing, I’m your mother!
Charlotte, this spread is superb! The gravy is groovy. You really outdid yourself!
You really think so, Sis? When I made the gravy, I shut everything else out and focused only on that, like you said to. I think that’s how and why it turned out so well!
he is not your sister
he is your brother
he is my son
his name is Daniel
named for the Interpreter of Dreams
that is how he was stitched inside my womb
that is how he exited my womb into this world
that is how he will die!
I will purge this demon so help me…
Mom? You good?
Srsly. Amy’s right. We can ruin this one Turkey Day and get it over with and move on; then you can stop being such a gaslight-y, gatekeep-y, girlboss-y weirdo bitch because my tiny apartment kitchen table isn’t the place for it; or you can go-
embrace the eternal return and sleep,
embrace the eternal return and sleep,
embrace the eternal return and sleep,
embrace the eternal return and-
-rise or not. The wait is ALWAYS so nerve-wracking for me!
I used to be like that. Now I just let it be. If it doesn’t rise, it’s obviously because I’m not The Great Man who could lead Great Yeast Civilization number one-nine-two through Hard Times to rise only to be crushed by the uncaring, calamitous fist of reality, and I should log in again to the exciting world of Three Dough-BoysTM.
Bread.
Yes, Mother. We’re talking about bread.
I suppose I could lean into my Jew-nitarianism and bake it as is rather than waste the other ingredients. Impromptu Passover celebration instead of mourning some imagined failure.
My son and daughter are talking about bread.
Did you hear something, Char?
Skip the plagues, whip some dip for the I-can’t-believe-it’s-not-unleavened cracker to melt Pharaoh’s heart. Let my people go, yo.
Then melt my heart.
I’ve already let you both go, once.
And my Firstborn S-
Such vanity. You’re no Pharaoh. Anyways, these rolls have certainly risen to this occasion. Want one?
They’re so fluffy! You did amazing, Amy! All that anxiety was absurd! Whatever you did – just remember to write it down and keep doing that.
Then what am I?
Why can’t we just talk about this?
You’re our mother and a war profiteer among other things, and you want us to listen without doing any listening. Against my better judgment, I want to believe you can do better.
I carved the turkey TERRIBLY, though! Look at it! I should get some carving knives. Maybe sharper knives in general? The kind that can be sharpened?
My Ricardo told me the same thing that night at the bar.
Mom, you’ve got that thousand yard stare, again. Who’s Ricardo? Did he talk to you about listening? Or about carving turkeys?
Be weird if they talked about carving turkeys.
Is there any wine?
MOM! You know we’re BOTH in recovery! What the actual fuck?
Maybe Ricardo is a chef and a fuckboy.
I’m sorry. I just-
Whatever. I’m sorry, too. Who’s Ricardo?
A chef and a fuckboy. Maybe.
Ricardo is…
how do I say it…?
Just say it.
Paraphrasing Our Lady Grace comma Laura Jane, “She says what she means, she just says what she means eventually.”
Ricardo is your father, Charlotte.
Oh.
Is he a pedo like Amy’s dad?
Charlotte!
Fair question.
Right?
The more I say,
the more danger I put us all in.
Let it go.
Like the danger you put us in when we trusted you with our secrets?
And you ratted us out and we got told to keep quiet? By our father? By the City Central Church deacons and pastoral staff? By our hometown’s school district administration because of our family’s position in the church? Again and again and again and again?
That was different.
You were children.
You couldn’t underst-
Understand what? When we were being taken advantage of? Hurt? Betrayed? Lied to? By the people we were supposed to be able to trust the most?
I understood p well p quick. ‘S’why I was such a heinous bitch as a tween and teen. ‘S’why I’m such a heinous bitch now. ‘Cept when I’m in character on stage.
What was I supposed to do?
I was being hurt, too!
Are you seriously going to sit here and pretend your defense contractor job didn’t totally dwarf dad’s former public school PE teacher salary?
You had options, and were the adult in the situation with the agency to exercise said options. Leave the acting to professionals like me, lady.
My job was partially contingent on church connections at the time.
Like I said: you were children.
You couldn’t underst-
I understand now that apparently many adults value their own comfort over the continued safety and sanity of the children in their midst, including their own.
At age 18, no matter what state of disrepair their psyche is in, many are simply left to their own devices and forced to pretend as though they are shining happy people. A glossy veneer sealant over fungal rot.
WELL WHAT DID YOU WANT ME TO DO?
That’s what you refuse to tell me!
You never tell me what I could have done better
or even what one small, tiny thing I did right!
It should be obvious.
It should be clear. It’s what we want you to do now. We’ve already said it. Your maybe baby daddy slash maybe fuckboy chef said it, too. Unless you two really did discuss all the finer points of the nuances of turkey carving.
what is it?
what do they want from me?
what have I done to them?
why are they treating me this way?
The real question: how can I get what I want from them?
The realer question: what do I even want from them?
The realest question: how do I even know what I want from them?
The most realest of the real of all questions:
Why are you here?
For real, yo.
What?
Why are you here? At this table? Don’t you have some spreadsheets to go over?
What about some sins of your own – or church gossip – to obsess over?
Some things are more important than work, and
I left the church when I divorced Chad.
If we’re more important than work, why are you treating us like an obligation?
Obligation? More like a wacky, waving, inflatable, arm flailing tube man’s attempt at parental ownership.
Ownership?
I gave birth to you!
Don’t I get some claim to-
No.
A giant miniature racist stereotype in a cupboard on a silver screen written with with wisdom and foresight once told a little boy lacking in those things, “You should not use magic you do not understand.”
Magic? What?
Charlotte mentioned her Jew-nitarianism, earlier. The story of the Golem comes to mind. A being made of clay, animated by a Rabbi to protect the Jews of a town in Prague.
In one ending, it saves the town several times, allowing it to prosper. In another, the Golem turns on its maker and destroys the town.
Are you both trying to tell me you’ve converted to Judaism?
No. I’m a cambion. Charlotte is UU, but without a congregation. The local one doesn’t like her tsundere vibes.
I’m literally out here just vibin’, yo.
Then what are you saying?
You’ve gone from
Old Testament Bible stories to a
90s film adaptation of an older novel to
Jewish fairy tales?
What are you saying?
What are you trying to tell me?
The same thing we told you all those years ago when we stood outside your bedroom doorway: listen when people say you are hurting them, and stop hurting them.
You don’t own us. You can’t control us. We will resent and repel your attempts to do so.
Is that-
is that how you see me?
Is that how you’ve always seen me?
You work in sales. You have for over two decades. You sell military-grade weaponry to puppet dictators and paramilitary organizations all across the globe. Given my own work history, it is difficult for me to see you any other way.
I’m an actor. I’ve done street work. I’ve faked it enough to know when most are. Especially my own mother.
Our Lady of the Perpetual Metamagic 