My favorite moment in history was
the Glorious Revolution
(though I'm not sure what it was,
I'm entranced with the name).
You're determined to teach me—
but my fidgety bones are preoccupied with the movements—
masquerade balls and queens.

Antebellum, Latin
(ante, before
and bellum, war).
The mathematical equations of the North and the South.
I'm not enrolled in Latin, but I'm pro-Revolutionary—
I thought powdered wigs were a drag—
but I adore log cabins.

You talk of the Know Nothings and the sequoias
and land sales,
never mentioning women's rights (suffrage
sounds awful, but was progress).

I rarely blame history on you:
you hate I view the past with scorn,
but at least the Trojans learned not to trust
a Greek bearing gifts.
You frown in agitation, calloused fingers
tangling your hair,
your eyes are weary, but
determined—I know you love history.
I say, it's a exponential function of ends versus means—
you turn a page in your textbook—
you cannot help but smile.