There are broken things
               I can never fix—
                         even though
                                I’m older—
      no matter
           how much I know,
my hands are still wounded green
                      with Spring’s earth—

from even before I knew
          the pain of destruction—or
the chaos of a single lie
             (before I knew it was a lie)

when I was crawling on sunset
                  in the tall grass
                       of our backyard,
          silently following
                       my brothers
                           (newly jaded)
                 as they joked in spite
       about our mother’s volatile shouts
from our sky blue house
            of loose and spurring rage.