MY HISTORY

my history
can be told through
weary scribbles on napkins, fluttering on the
table to be thrown out, the little annoyances
necessary evils to provide a
second-hand education to me
as a three-year-old, an accidental metaphor
of learning disposed
in trashcans or hand-me-down towns
littered with battered books, two words on each
page.
my history lies
in the flesh ripped from my knees and
absorbed by the pavement in the playground
and in the limp fraying band-aids
covering my pain, but it all went away
dissolved except for a white ghost clinging to
the surface, fading, the shirt washed
too many times with the wrong colors.
pressing my face to the glass of the
eternal washing machine, I see
the system flood, and
yank around the victims in a vicious circle,
every damp sock thwacked against the wall and
pulled back to repeat the cycle once again.
don’t worry, it draws in everyone, there is
No Child Left Behind.
my history now
wobbles on the edge, afraid to take the dive of suicide,
to leave behind my frozen photograph in front of me,
because my history lies
here where I was told every truth to tell,
and out there
my history
dies.

SUMMER IN SPRING

chains, rusty gates and
grids throb through my veins,
dotted with firetruck-clad kids climbing the slides
someday to be replaced with
elevators, a trot down the block to the nearest
stop.
today, my urban blood runs only through my veins as moist southern air
hazes my brain,
brewing and steeping
earthy wood breeze rippling
willow trees.
anti-government buttons studding straps straddling backs soak through
to the other
side, morphing, melding into pebbles and acorns scattered through sandy soil.
as the vents in these building blocks piled high
flicker yellow and shut to the shuddering chill, all traces of Georgia
and Florida oranges stiffen and bristle,
brittle and bony.
back to rusty ladders stacked against brick,
come back to the city sometime.

HERE

i am sitting here,
gazing into orange space here,
swinging my limp legs here,
a traitor, because

#1: i have gulped sour juice and let tiny bubbles of soda eat away at my tongue for my whole long childhood, and now i sit, pretending to be peaceful and wise like a silver-haired guru, sipping steaming passionfruit herbal tea.

#2: i have even betrayed the tea, absorbing any traces of lush, earthy flavor left in foamy, salty garlic knots.

#3: you are shuffling your feet somewhere, a black armband squeezing you like a supporting relative’s hand (though not offering much comfort), as i sit and watch stiff plastic shoes click by through the window.

#4: i know all this, but by admitting it here i somehow assume i am pardoned.

WALKING

as my feet scrape over abandoned chunks
of rubble from the narrow sidewalk,
i am still warm
having just jumped through the door,
either getting away
or coming back
to something I left
a long time ago.

i leave civilization as the park path
splits, but even so early, as the sky seems lit by dull fluorescent lamps,
there are
noises, the heavy bus giving a gritty sigh
from deep within, the shopping cart crunching the sidewalk,
chewing it as cereal is ground by molars.

the birds' little squeaks and quivers are
dimming, giving way to urban shuffles, but
i am not to blame, having ripped the jingling bracelets
from my wrist
before I left.

though suffocated in rubber soles, my feet
seep through to the earth below the cracked crust of pavement, and
since no one has claimed it before, it is
my earth for my toes to dig into.

turning my hunched back to the park, stale beer and
mutters from SUVs weave themselves a filthy cloth,
constricting every passerby in a slimy coat.

now where tree branches wear
caution tape bandanas and
flaky posters overlap on walls of plywood,
i regret leaving where
the sparrows at least twittered
in fear of being abandoned.