How will we find each other?
Meet me in a memory
of walking distance
and fish heads
getting too real
reminds me of New York.
Reminds me of the pastry I had
at the Italian bakery
contemplating ordering gelato in December
happy birthday to me.
My favorite sweatshirt from the least kitschy shop in Times Square.
There was no snow.
Blush, Berry, Garnet.
Merlot, Candy Apple, Jam.
Burgundy, Ruby.
Bracing strength, yes, and beauty,
In my Three Hundred Red Bricks.
One two three four…
My mother rises early—slower, each year.
tw: trauma of childhood neglect
1.
There’s a dropped toy in the hallway.
It needs to go back to where it belongs.
Supper is in a few minutes and everyone is busy
setting dishes and washing hands
and here I am in the hallway
about to pick up this toy.
Mom and Dad will be proud
of their ten-year-old son
even if they don’t see it happen.
There’s a dropped toy in the hallway.
It needs to go back to where it belongs.
2.
My favorite thing about our bedrooms are the walls.
They’re not a solid color or wallpaper
like I’ve seen in everybody else’s rooms,
but white with green lines going in random directions,
like pine trees.
Mom says they were painted with feathers.
I think that’s really cool.
3.
The youngest brother is running
down the hall toward the kitchen
and thinks he can dash beside me
bending down to pick up a toy from the floor.
We bump shoulders,
pressing him into the wall.
The screams that erupted!
A house thrown into chaos
parents thrust into action
What happened? What happened?
They’re goal is always–always–
how to get the crying to stop quick,
my brother
HE SQUEEZED MY ARM! HE SQUEEZED MY ARM!
There’s a toy in my hand, a stuffed animal
I was just trying to pick this up!
I was trying to make Mom and Dad proud.
Instead I “hurt” my brother and “lied” about it
so I’m sent to my room.
No video games for a week.
4.
I like to stare at my green feather-painted walls.
Because of how they’re made
there are patterns you can trace,
but they change ever so slightly.
There are stories all around me.
Animals running,
stick people coming together and dancing
and you can sometimes make faces.
Except the faces kind of scare me.
Through punished tears
I can’t tell if their beginning to smile
or starting to scream.
I don’t want to be here anymore.
5.
Years later, I’m a teenager setting down to clean my room,
a lame thing
since it’s just going to get messy later
but dad just won’t let it go.
Every day Clean your room. Clean your room.
It’s hard to know where to begin
with piles of clothes, loose papers,
shoes, and books strewn about
but fine. Let’s just get this over with.
Except it doesn’t take long
for old tendencies
to take over.
I’m tracing the patterns
along walls feather-painted green
when a new discovery stops me,
flash freezes me solid.
Amongst the feather-strokes
in block letters and black ink,
something I don’t remember writing,
but who else besides me to hold the pen…
HELP
6.
The years made me quiet.
It never mattered what I said,
it was the youngest brother who’d win in the end
because he was the loudest.
Mom and dad just wanted peace.
It’s not something I can blame anyone for.
This story has no villains;
just people who tragically overlooked shattering youth
who would never quite figure out how to relate.
I hate conflict
because I always lost.
I roll over
because I never had a valid point.
I’m not confident
which in turn is unattractive
I’m silent
because nothing I said meant anything.
I was too young to know what was happening to me.
My parents too tired to see the cracks.
I do forgive them
but the damage–sense of helplessness–
of growing up in an environment
that repeatedly dismissed my reality
may stay with me until the day I die.
7.
We eventually had that bedroom painted
meaning a stranger had to have looked at my cry,
but they never saw it
hidden in the natural chaos
of walls feather-painted green
forever mapped to my heart.
8.
There’s a dropped toy in the hallway.
It needs to go back to where it belongs.
A dropped toy in the hallway.
It needs to go back to where it belongs.
It needs to go back to where it belongs.
It needs to go back to where it belongs.
I needs to go back to where i belongs.
What will I do today?
I’m not sure.
I’ll make a To-Do List.
Then I’ll know what to do.
What should I put on my list?
What do I need to do?
What do I want to do?
What should I do first?
Oh, I don’t know.
I need paper,
I need a pen.
Okay, number one!
Get paper,
Number two,
Get pen,
Number three,
Get planner.
Now I can plan,
To
Write My To-Do list.
What to write?
I need a snack.
I can’t think on an empty stomach.
Pause…
I need to take a break.
Five minutes.
I’m back!
During my break…
I made coffee,
Ate a snack bar.
Noticed a spot on my white kitchen cabinet door,
Had to wipe it off,
Also had to wipe down three others.
Talked to my sister on the phone,
Noticed some dust,
Had to get it.
Decided to change the tablecloth on my kitchen table.
It’s lunchtime now,
Fixed lunch,
Ate lunch,
Fell asleep in the chair.
Back at my computer.
Five minutes morphed into four hours.
What am I doing?
Humm?
Right!
My…
To-Do List.
Starting now…
1 –
Black clouds above us,
thunder rolls in the distance,
lightning streaks the sky
The gods sent this weather to us,
a sign they knew it was time
to ease you of distress,
to call you home,
to welcome you where you began
We hope the journey was quick,
and that you get to run free
that you get to smell wildflowers
that you get to dance in intervals of infinite sunshine
and happily dodge droplets of chosen rain storms
and that you get to laugh and fill your heart with joy
You are missed already dear friend.
Thank you for all you’ve given us of you.
I see myself in the jade of the river Seine,
and by that I mean nothing morbid anymore.
When you tell me there are bodies in the water
you mean not mine, just our lost reflections
wavering in the day heat, pickpocketing the sun.
By that grace I assure myself I’m cured,
and by that I mean give me a week or two,
and by that I mean I want a life of this:
living in the daylight, wandering.
Happiness is a tourist, I learn to be a good host,
asking how many sugar cubes for her coffee.
I guard her from the rails, tuck her shadow neatly
into the folds of mine, let her stare into space
at the foreign tongue of my sadness’s relics
echoing from the catacombs below the sunshine.
For her sake, I pretend I don’t believe
thank you sounds a lot like mercy.
I don’t let her know I’m tired of the word sang,
I’m tired of overdone metaphors,
I’m tired of industrial habits.
I’d rather watch time pull me backwards
into the future on the metro line,
so I think of tattooing a meaningless graffiti tag
onto my upper arm to keep a part of the city:
Manta. Rose. Gone. Love me,
explode like Roman candles burning into pale eyes.
Musicians spill into the street for this.
There are many people to search here for you within,
to pretend you’re leaving clues for me to follow.
Every breadcrumb magpies swallowed but every
indifferent expression could house a heart like yours.
I walk overtop the place where Diana died and no one
is weeping, no one is critiquing the routine.
And I don’t know what you’re coming back to earth as
so I am kind to everything.
Smile at the soft tresses of the field trip babies,
nod at the men who’ve become walking cigarettes
with their head on fire like yours once was.
I’ll never be a smoker.
There are sirens playing when I’m trying to sleep
on the park bench, ambulances wailing but
they are not for me, and they were never for you.
The river unwinds in the background,
the unconnected thoughts pack their suitcases
and head towards the train. Joy lingers.
There is no point to this but to say I am healing.
On a lichen-covered
Decaying tree in the wood
Shrouded by overhead branches
A beam of sunlight breaches the canopy
And illuminates a spot where
A Monarch comes to rest on the rot
Her wings open and fold, open and fold
In a tiny home on some street
Unremarkable from all others
A woman wakes
Just as daylight breaches the horizon
Baby to breast
Then, on with the rest –
Laundry, and work, and meals
Lunches, hugs, and soccer fields
Her arms open and hold, open and hold
