[Unbury my childhood and I will scatter from the hurt of it]
Unbury my childhood and I will scatter from the hurt of it.
Each limb and atom spread wide to let years,
burned from the mad dash of impossible avoidance, pass.
I drink, and smoke, and gather could-be lovers around
to smother these memories I do not have. I tell myself
I do not have them. Get them out of my sight, I’ll say,
but at night the pieces will quilt my bedding.
Those single digit years lay rotten at the far edge of this landscape,
where a home juts out built from dandelion memories.
A grey kitten with four crooked stitches across her head,
who purred while she licked my ear.
A dog I named and loved and never, ever saw again –
except once in a photo sent from San Antonio, where he stands
beside a grandmother I also never saw again.
A red balloon slow drifting into a too blue sky,
not a cloud nearby, and my father’s outstretched hand,
the string inches away – he doesn’t catch it, and I don’t forget –
instead, I gather and stack them like nesting dolls.
I show them to no one – except on delicious, dark nights
where the past is spread like jam, and someone hands me a shovel.