I’m From…


I’m squinting my memories,                                                               

forcing them back up the driveway.

I’m from my parent’s locked doors.

From my mother’s womb,

where pain doubled over

under unfinished roofs

and rain festered in uneven tarp,

dripping from clouds

onto her forehead.

I’m from my electric curiosity

during a five-year-old’s nap time.

The gold, monogrammed necklace

jammed into the socket, sparking

black spots, an injured palm.

Crying loud, drowning out

the fan’s propellors.

Ouch.

I’m from the empty room

curled up beneath the

staircase like a secret cupboard,

with rat dropping

like cherry pits.

Dark and crunchy.

How’d they get there?

I’m from concrete cracks

beneath the pool’s chlorinated

waters, and spray-painted

white lines over wild ivy,

toxic and spicy.

Who did that?

I remember the maple tree,

gilded sepia with leaves.

And crispy appendages spotted

with skeletal husks of hornets,

like bark on bark.

Where’d they go?

I can see the nearby

cedar-planked Church

with dusty pews flaunting abc gum,

where I smashed grapes into a pulp,

into wine I’d never taste

and a God I’d never believe in.

Where the young girl was raped

under neighborhood eyes.

Who was watching her?

I’m from Chastain park,

splintered wood chips and haven hedges

rescuing neon spots

(remnants of the privileged racqueteers)

and the dead-end turnabout,

Raintree Drive,

where mary jane ran a-muck

while apron-clad mothers

overcooked grilled chicken,

over-sweetening iced tea

with Splenda.

And I’m from Uncle Claire,

and the eyeball he lost

to the nail and hammer at 23,

orbiting hazily in its socket.

Poor world.

Why him?

I’m from my memories.

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