I want to be an art critic.

I want to have such a glorious
eye piece, that the thinnest strokes of oils and acrylics
could shine off my lens into your face
when you address me as “madam”
and I grace you with my gaze.

I want cheap rings to clink on my fingers
and bangles to slide up my armpits when
I wave my hands around in passionate fits.
I want my black curly hair to be
knotted in head scarves, flyaways everywhere.

I want to be an art critic
and write poetry on the side,
so that little bow-ties and girls
whisper, “this means something!” amongst themselves
and match my psychosis poems to museum pieces.

I want my behavior to be explained
by my occupation, and preferably
by my mother to her friends. I want to be
all that I believe an art critic embodies

(which, I am aware, is different from reality).