Lucky in love
or parking, Phoebe's mother
told her, one or the other
and furthermore, you have
to choose, she said. And Phoebe, 
eighteen, with her new license,
Phoebe, sure that love is romance 
at first, then willpower, power
her mother's never had, Phoebe, late
for a date with her new lover
prayed, sweet Jesus, let
me find a space.

	Oh the careless
cruelty of mothers, mine who said
I think you'll have an ordinary life,
meaning, not be a nun
who starves herself to death
for the sake of mortal
or immortal unrequited love
or whatever I thought God
wanted me for, then.

	Now, as we're rushing
to opening night, Hedda Gabler
at the Huntington, Phoebe's telling
the latest tawdry chapter, Herb 
groping the babysitter. I wish I had 
a gun! She noses the Saab into a spot
inches from a fireplug. She knows:
when we return after the show
the car will be here, unticketed
untowed, unbooted.

	And I know:
tomorrow morning I'll stand
at the altar, my hands,
my words turning bread to body,
turning wine to blood—
my ordinary life.