Poem in a New Old Place
Summer’s final burning days.
We move into a rental with sticky carpets and no air.
Heat pools in my feet and I’m ten again, sitting in the closet in my mother’s studio apartment, listening to Songs About Jane on repeat.
A transient year in this transient city.
Scrabble at Grounds for Thought.
A carefully folded note stating that my friends don’t want to be friends anymore.
Trinkets stolen from the art store while my mom is in class.
A glass and wire pig with wings.
Pinecone collections, razed cornfields, books on the atrocities of World War II ordered from a Scholastic flyer.
I returned here for you.
Now, I cannot spend too much time considering that girl.
That skinny little Mexican girl folding paper into one wish and then another.
And then another.
This week, the hair on my arms stands up easily.
Every thought is an epiphany.
Scrabble tiles scatter across the table.
I arrange and rearrange the maple letters into words.
Their meanings are still unknown to me.