Sampler

Sampler

My mother forbid me
the word I long
to toss on the table
like a wild card at poker.

Galloping across the yard
on a broomstick pony
I shout the word to the wind,
rebel like a cowgirl refusing
to ride side saddle.

I am not the girl
my mother insists pronounce
tomato, tomahto;
potato, potahto
in a voice stiffer
than a starched collar

I take up a needle
more pointed than her disapproval
to embroider a bold cross-stitch
"ain't" in my sampler
and refuse to rip it out.