Don’t think I’m telling these stories
because they stand out as special.
Each is one stinking weed in the evil
bouquet of my childhood, and part
of the stink comes from growing up

to raise kids of my own. Watching them
bloom, I learned that childhood could
and should be an anthology
(anthos: flower and logia: gather)
of beautiful colors and redolence.

Mom, you were always kind
to animals and had a green thumb.
I’ll give you that, but I remember
when I felt parched deep in my roots
and you didn’t bring me any water.