8 .
I hear bullets
in the thunder of the storm
and wake up, fist balled
clenching onto fabricated memories
the only things I have
aside from the haunting neighbor kids’ taunts
and the hearsay of my mother:
the murderer

10.
someone told me this once
- I forget who -
but they told me that
my father picked me up
the morning after the shooting
- although he didn’t know it then -
he carried me over the corpse
as I slept
it slept under the porch
freshly painted
- a thick red

12.
seat across from me is empty
the killer’s chair
I walked into this building like an ant
(so small)
Its tall gates like sharpened teeth
opening wide - consuming me
and my insignificance

a long line of hair tangled
and miserable looking
women in orange enter the room
like the life had all but melted from them
and all they had to look forward to
was mashed potato Tuesdays
and cross-stitching classes
I know her from across the room
I don’t hate her
as I think I should, or imagine I would
Instead, I am overcome by heavy understanding

I am soon to be face to face
with the vessel that brought me into this world
and I could ask it any question
yet all I can think to say is
“hi “
she smiles at me and tears up a little
tells me she’s glad I came
and we stumble over small talk
still in awe
I wonder how it was that I just knew

she asks about me
I don’t know who I am yet
is the truth she never hears

13
I’m told that the gunshots
haunting my childhood dreams
were never fired by her
I believe that
she doesn’t seem like the type

the story I hear these days
is that she did what she had to do
to keep us kids alive
I like that much better
my mother:
the heroine

15
their drug of choice, dad tells me
was *******
and I’ve also learned some interesting
but hopefully forgettable facts
about the night I was conceived

17
they let her off her leash
she came back home
tail wagging between her legs
Got back with my father, and took
(another?) half-hearted jab at motherhood
She didn’t know how
Or me
And I felt bad for her

21
I wish I could tell you
that this story has a happy ending
but life is the shattering of people
and sweeping together of what falls on the floor
nothing is ever completely swept away
and the microscopic slivers of the past always
find their way into our feet

my parents were never built to last
not calloused enough to walk
barefoot in the kitchen
dad still calls me nearly every day
even just to gossip or complain

She hasn’t called in months
but she only calls when she wants something
so, I guess that’s a relief
Still, its times like this
I wish I could hate her

I hate to admit it,
But I kind of miss the time in my life
when she was made of stories
and I never knew her from across the room
or learned what she is:
another shard on my kitchen floor