My childhood
was stubbing toes on pool railings
while trying not to drown
four foot tall, six feet under.
I sat by houseplants
on cold tile.
I lost my teeth to salt water taffy.
My parakeet was named
after a character on Full House
who had frizzy hair
and did not have her mama either.
One day,
she broke her beak.
It was my fault, I brought the
blood to my face as I would salve
to apologize
but it was far too late.
Daddy set her free while I slept.
I would rush to the
school supply aisle in Kroger
for pens and pencils
and bought Barbie dolls to glide
against the bayou’s surface.
Later, Katrina came
to sink everything I ever touched.
I thought
about the black men and their
saxophones downtown
how I wanted to replace the reeds
so badly
to hear New Orleans jazz
one final time before we moved.
The whole time
my sister was made of sage.
My brother slept on my Powerpuff
Girl sheets so often that
I kept my panties in another room.
And I thought that
mothers came from fireplaces
because mine
hid her liquor in there sometimes.