I prefer

(in response to Lies, a poem by Jo Schapcott)

Open spaces, spring meadows, allotments, or a humble veg patch.

Freshly picked apples, sun ripened berries and the occasional fruit topped pavlova.

Lazy breakfasts in the garden, full of tea fuelled conversation and Grandmas special granola.

Visits from the neighbourhood Robin, over visits from our Neighbourhood Watch.

Friendly faces, kind gestures and a simple thank you.

A homemade gift, a simple pleasure, like an afternoon nap under the blanket I'll treasure.

I prefer...

a penchant for naughtiness,

a penchant for crime,

a penchant for vanity,

I'd prefer now not to rhyme.

Kind to my preferences

kinder to them than anything else,

a preferential, presidential preference,

very important choices.

What do I like,

what do I want,

I, I, I, I, I, I.

If what I like differs from what you like is that cause for disagreement?

Can I convince you that my preferences are right?

Perhaps if I manage to change what you think you like

I might then change my mind on the subject and perhaps you will follow again.

Oh, that didn't work, you were just being agreeable

and now you've had enough,

you're done placating me and your patience has worn though,

you never preferred what I prefer,

not even a little bit,

now what do I think of my preferences,

what were they again?

I changed them to excite you and have no recollection of what they originally were.

Perhaps it's you,

perhaps my preference has always been you,

maybe the things that I like are changeable or rotational like the seasons,

maybe my only real preference is being with you whether or not we agree on those things,

you show me your changing sides when I let you,

let me show you mine now that I understand,

I prefer, I prefer, I prefer, I prefer....

Prefer, seems so formal. I prefer this one, not that. I prefer you, not you. Cold. Not the warm rush of desire, passion. But detachment, surveilling the options, pointing the finger. The extension of I, out into the world of other. I prefer you. I reach out to you. I touch you. I know you. Extending oneself, myself. The extended finger on the Sistine Chapel. The chosen one. The weight of preference, the favour to live up to. A finger can shift off lightly. A small movement away, toward another, or retreating back to oneself. I am writing, finger extended, ink flowing, moving across the page. I prefer this word to that it seems. It’s rarely a clear preference, a conscious one. Here I prefer conscious to clear. I could go back and scratch it out, replace clear. l I choose not to. I prefer not to erase. Rather, to allow to co-exist. It can be confusing sometimes.. No clear preference. I fear to upset the rejected word, the non-preferred. Too long I lived in the shadow of my older sister; my shyness and sensitivity no match for her confidence and entertaining ways with my relatives, who bestowed her with energetic smiles and family jewels, a string of red, garnets, she wears still, a show of being the preferred one. I know she knows, even if she would deny remembering it now. All for show. Preference as showy. If I prefer this, what does it say about me? Preference has shallow roots. There in the shadows, overlooked, one can put down deep roots. Storing up energy for when the time comes, the proud tree is fallen and there is more light, light for me to extend myself, not only a finger, a tentative branch, but a full extension of trunk and root. Deep and broad and high. Sky high. Embracing, cavorting with the clouds. Not preferred but enjoyed – I don’t like that, don’t feel satisfied with that, it’s not quite right.