Richard Chess
March 2007

Leviticus for Daughters


Do not pierce your tongue.
Do not drive simply
            to speed up, slow down: the world
will not tolerate your setting your own pace.
Do not forget the song your mother sang.
Do not leave the table without a plate:
            a hand is designed to help.
Do not put a stumbling block before the blind, do not
            give away the answer to the student cheating behind you.
Do not pierce your bellybutton.
Do not use perfume
            or any product tested on animals.
Do not sleep late tomorrow, you need to
            complete the application.
Do not bring that boy into my house again.
Do not hate me or your father (wherever he rusts) or
            your little brother who stole the birthright from you.
Do not curse, do not curse
            the driver who cuts you off,
            the cashier who shortchanges you,
            the boy who betrays you, the player of the other team
            who jabs you in the back
            when you are standing to field the ball punted toward you—
we are not a people who live easily
among others, so we must live quietly
            on the street, in our seats.
Your body—don’t paint it, it isn’t canvas.
Don’t use it as a ticket to admit you to the show.
Don’t let just anyone stick his bill on it, his circular.
And don’t let it think
for itself—that’s how Shirley’s daughter
got into the mess she’s in.
Don’t pierce your nose, but if you do
            wear gold in the hole, don’t
            ever melt it down
            like that weak generation lost in the desert.
You know the noise you hear coming
            from my bedroom at dawn?  Don’t you
be crazy like me.
Don’t shave.
Don’t eat your own blood.  Be holy.
Don’t forget the Sabbath—even
            when you are desecrating it.
Even if god is just a word, say it
            the way you say, when
            you’re irate, forlorn,
            mother.

first appeared in Ascent, Winter 1999.