When I was little
my father took me to an art exhibit
and stood in front a colossal blend
of hues and tinctures and smeared philosophy
that my unadulterated mind could not calculate.
I pondered the painting
and told my father I could not understand
and he said he did not, either
with a musing look on his face
that registered his scrutiny and brainwave.
But I still could not understand how
one can be captivated by something
one does not understand.
Years later, I met you, and
I think about that painting.
And now I understand.

When I was little
and my mother was away,
my immune system battled a cough.
But I was too fragile, my body too brittle,
so I climbed the forbidden cupboard
in our kitchen
and flooded my lungs with cough syrup
and the drug took over my body
as my delicate knees quivered
and I collapsed on the cold linoleum floor.
When my father found out, he told me
not to ever take too much medicine
or anything
because too much of something is never good.
And now I understand why
they told me to stay away from you.