The Last Few Things

I will not tell you about how I grew up,

memories that petrify on restless nights.

Instead, I will recount cicadas and

katydids screeching on dusty summer

evenings, having awoken from their slumber,

instinctively searching for a mate.

I will not recall my childhood pain

but rather the last few things that resonate

without burning grief in my brain.

If I dug deep in the yard, I could find clay

hard enough to make plates

for imaginary pie.

I savored the grit in my teeth

because I was hungry

for something undefined.

If I dug deeper,

I might discover long-lost treasure,

or so I would dream

when hoping for something better

was all I had.

I will not ruminate on haunting secrets.

I will find courage in the darkness

like when I clutched the peachy, stuffed bear to my chest

and pretended she was alive.

Little things were soothing when I listened closely—

the pitter-patter heart beat

of a kitten reclining

over my ear,

the rhythmic purring I still hear

sometimes when I can't sleep.

I will not try to be perfect

because it won't prevent the truth

from slipping through

crevices in the retrospect

of my cluttered life.

Red ants and rope swings each bite

in their own way.

“Don’t get closer,” he would say,

and I wondered

why my, then, brother

was shoveling holes in the sand

deep enough to bury an elephant.

Maybe it was because

we didn’t want to remember,

as if it was easy enough

to let rest in peace the embers

of insanity

and these last few things.

The lemon and lime

parrots who sang in my room at night

gave me dreams that I could fly

before I realized how heavy

feathers could be.

A broken tractor

delivered me to masquerades

I could visit once and never after.

How I wish these simple plays

were all I’d ever known.

I will not hold closely

what ruined the

simulacrum of a home.

Instead, I will recall crickets and their melody

on fragile summer evenings

or lone coyotes leering from the trees,

not knowing that they were less frightening

than what was inside.

Often, I will mourn

my emptiness of stolen time,

but I won't leave it all behind.

These last few things

are skinny and far between,

but they’re mine.