i.
my first idol was gene kelly
i wanted to tip my hat to frilly women
creases in my trousers so sharp
they could be used as weapons
i would smell like cedar
shaving cream
cigarette smoke
dank alleyways where bruises are bestowed
and everyone has a second
stomach-down on an orange **** carpet
chin in hands
til my elbows were rubbed raw
watching a gender i could never perform
pressed into the seams of a slate-blue suit
ii.
my grandmother equates food and love
but won't try anything green
or tomatoes
or bell peppers
or brown bread
or breakfast
but grandma, the waffles
the frozen cinnamon ones
you had to wait long excruciating moments for
drenched in syrup, not even the real stuff
and cookies after lunch
and ice cream for dessert
and white bread
with a wink, a "shh don't tell"
to this day i cannot eat
without the long fingers of guilt
counting my ribs like beads
iii.
there is a house
rising out of the backyard of my grandparent's house
it is one story taller
and fifty years newer
it stands on my grandmother's rose bushes
it stands on her pansies
her snapdragons
the beauty bark paths
and the small trinkets that defined their edges
i bet you can't even see
the patch of grass where grandpa parked his truck
for twenty years and plants grew
all sparse and yellow and shriveled
that house is built on top of the three or four trees
we played in, thought were a forest
the hundreds of pinecones
some as big as my head
some as small as my thumb
once i drove past this malignant mansion
and wanted to throw fists at it
to challenge it
i waited for a long time
waiting for it to grow while it thought i wasn't looking
for it to engulf my grandparent's house
which suddenly seemed tiny and brown in comparison
the next time i am there
i expect i will tiptoe
and wait for my child-self to appear
so we can warn each other
of the coming ruin