Martin Thinks I’m Catholic
With thanks to Andy N, for suggesting it

 

My father adored me.  He cuddled me in his arms 
after my birth and said, Doesn’t she look intelligent, love?

My mother believed I wasted that intelligence raising babies. 
I was relieved disappointment had no place in her grateful sigh,
as I arrived at the hospital in time to watch her die.

My brothers consider me crazy, but good for a laugh.  
In truth, our parents’ dreadful marriage hurt us all – 
one brother cannot commit; the other over-commits; 
and I should be committed, according to them.

My husband loves that I’m smart; dumb women irritate him -
though he thinks I’m nuts to believe in God.  He says he picked
the best possible mother for his children; but wishes 
I’d dust upon occasion.  He thinks I have perfect breasts 
because more than a handful’s a waste.  
I’m thankful he doesn’t have large hands.

My sons tell me I’m ditzy, call me a wally 
with depressing regularity, lavish kisses and hugs 
upon me, and never forget my birthday.

My friends think I’m flaky: You know you’re weird, right?  
It’s because I eat egg & chips with a particular set of cutlery.  
It’s simple, really: small utensils for small hands.  
What’s weird about that?

Some friends think I’m strange for having a faith 
in the modern age.  One laughs indulgently at my airhead ways.  
Another is astonished that my appetite is double hers, 
when my weight is half.  One believes I’m too submissive;
another that I’m too feisty.  None believe I’m shy.

But the oddest thing of all – the vibe I must be sending out –
the air I fear I must emit that makes me odder than I believe 
I do appear, is that Martin thinks I’m Catholic. 

Will you consider me peculiar if I confess that every time 
I think of it, in my head it’s in italics?

Martin thinks I’m Catholic; I prefer, ‘eccentric’.