Matriarchy

Unlike city kids, we were never bored growing up in the bosom of Ontario.

Every breast in the roadhouse here for the suckling, I was a marginalized 
runt but it was the opposite of me getting nosed out. So far they’ve home-
schooled and maintained my XY unweaned with all-night cleavage feedings. 

But it’s unclear what Pappy thinks on occasions he’s got the pluck 
to come back from trapping a little, hunting a little, lonewolf 
fox-trotting in brush shelters; scuttlebutt’s Tarzan’s running 
a part-time undercover henpecked false flag stag operation.
 
Will Papa have the moxie to foot my bill for college away 
as his band of brothers’ fangs more’n hint, or allow our barnyard 
to stay the same like Mama I love so much and both Grandmas 
insist even if their cuddle bunny qualifies for Sandy Hill’s creampuff? 

Which seems iffy since Auntie sniffed out that proctors won’t allow 
wet nurses or dairy cows in during breaks between ten separately-timed 
test sections. When the big morning comes, curds ‘n whey made teat 
suction cups clog up then I flunked the U of O’s Office of  Diversity’s 
Quesadilla Test of Delayed Gratification. Having hung in there 
until it was spoiled milk which had to be dumped down the Bytown drain, 
my slabs of flab rolled back on themselves to cheese-grate last vestiges 
of self-esteem I nada had – but someday still do hope to attain.

© Gerard Sarnat