Time used to stretch himself out
and suspend me
when I jumped
into lakes
and ponds
and blue holes
to join my love already splashing,
but now He lets Earth hold me closer,
has found a mossy seat for me beneath the red maple tree
where I can blow bubbles for my grandson to chase
as they’re lifted
skyward
by a breeze
When your ancestors came to these hills
and felt only hunger for their neighbors gardens
I believe a pit formed in your bloodline
with each generation as your wealth bloomed into
a foul gummy flower your greed swelled with
with equal measure
posioned soaked barks from corrupted creeks
spilled forth, allowing your taint to seep further
into your Usher homestead
a copperhead rank fills the nostrials,
a miasma billowing from your buildings
delicate white petals as rot swirls within wood grain
the bloody ichgor from your robber barron mines
is squeezed from an unfortunate harvest of desperate,
desolate, and devastated
a lot casted with devils, so admist this ruined empire
your souls will forever be bound to the lives crushed
beneath this Northwest Passage of profit
Until God finally looks upon this line, grimaces and signs you
off to hell’s slaughter house. Plump from the excess
of misdeeds and bottomless pits.
The crack in the face of the clock allows time to slip through my hands
Suddenly, there I am.
Buried alive in all of the wasted time spent hating myself because I wasn’t enough for you
I scream into pillow cases that still smell of cigarettes and that perfume of yours that I always hated.
But there I am.
Swallowed whole by the memories that you and I built on the furthest thing from a firm foundation.
It’s three AM, and the patterns on the ceiling have started answering all of the questions you never did.
They tell me things I want to hear about you and me, so that I almost forget that I’m all alone.
I don’t want to make it stop.
The pressure builds beneath my skin, only reminding me that you’re gone.
I lie here begging the ghost of you to help me.
Anyone.
Help me.
I swap the sword at my throat for a butterfly pendant.
I shimmer salted vanilla scented. I swish baking soda
dissolved in a cup of cold water but do not taste it.
I paint my nails silver with white glitter, layer polish
until my claws are strong and nearly unbreakable.
My spine rises sharp and untouchable, hackles up,
I grin and it’s harmful. Dowse myself in lavender at night,
restless, arms contorted out of socket like a broken doll’s.
I forget to take photos of my face. I won’t be eighteen forever.
I breathe hot in the sunlight. My mother says my skin
is so smooth as she works out the knots in my back,
but all bone, she says, all bone. I want to be sharper.
I want to be something the mosquitos don’t have a taste for.
Bloodless beauty. Tame mostly, like an aquarium shark
making little circles in a tank too small, so numb, so cool.
I sit in the living room. My parents tried hard for this baby.
The baby is grown. She is a bit less innocent now.
Let the graduation card fall to the ground, take the money.
I pretend I can’t read the cursive note so I don’t have to.
It’s addressed to the baby, what she would’ve become
in a different timeline. No one knows who they’re writing to
when they mail those prewritten cards. I laugh hollowly.
I’ve been missing for a long time. I want to vanish fully.
I want to walk into the sundown and let my body dissolve,
all flesh and spectacle becomes smoke and fog and air.
I ponder my escape, but I make no movement towards it.
I do the little things I can that give me the illusion I am:
coat my teeth with fluoride, fill the garden with delphinium,
go get labs drawn but lie to the nurse taking my weight.
It’s like going out walking in a dream. I journey for miles,
but slowly all becomes familiar, I learn with great effort
that I have been tracing the same circles back to the start.
I am placated by the ritual of it, this tight endless spiral.
I barely notice the fake coral, the artificial light rippling
so lovely above me, the glass box so finite, so cramped.
my mind has been seeing warm potter hands
molding a clay bowl on a wheel
ten years from now, i will be married
to a potter with a scruffy beard
an intimidating nature
and an aura my parents hate
tiredness will chase
my battle between stability
and the creative pursuit
i will be home thirty minutes
past my teenage curfew
full of indignation and spirit
there will be an office job left behind
a type writer collecting dust
stacks of bills unpaid
dried clay stuck on my nailbeds
I hunt for information and gather data
Inside my work cave with a trusty mouse.
I am terrified of the unforgiving world.
I must survive to make ends meet.
I cannot trust outsiders.
Where is my band of people?
To be exiled means to die from shame.
I will say and do anything for acceptance.
I compile my information and data, then think to myself:
Our ancestors were happier than us.
A plotted distance
from which he leaps
through the water to the glass—-
bounding off with its paws,
orchestrated movements
Over & over, the creature moves,
caught in a trained circle
of leaping, swimming, spinning,
& pushing off
to awe the spectators
the children
I am one of them
But, in a way,
I too repeat these movements
begging for others’ amazement
others’ wonder
others’ approval
At least I have a choice in the matter
i promise i won’t
mess up your order, lady
Because i am male
i can confirm that
i have years under my belt
of being yelled at
by people who are
both dumber and meaner than
i will ever be
a focus on trauma
eclipses
the inheritance of
joy
that kept our ancestors
dreaming
the
future (us)
pulling stars down
and
braiding them into
songs
that rippled waves
across
laughing bellies.
“we are the sum of our ancestors”
means
the joy
is there,
too.
