I’m counting the freckles on my skin.
I’m tracing the coffee-splotch birthmark on my stomach.
I’m biting my nails and cracking my knuckles and
thinking about the Old House.

I think it’s sort of funny how in an entire life,
with all its seconds and all its moments, and
all its memories, only some things really stick.

There used to be a time where I prided myself
on my apparently “flawless” memory; I forget
things all the time.  Like
        my mother’s voice
        my father’s face
        my grandmother’s eye color.

I fear that I’ve forgotten the most
important parts of my childhood.

I remember daddy’s race cars,
mommy’s wine, the time my sister
slammed the van door on my head, and the
time I kicked the bathroom entrance.

Last week I opened the photo albums from
under my mother’s bed and I’ve
already forgotten all the things that I
finally figured out that I forgot.  
Sitting on the floor, surrounded by one-hour
Walgreens prints, I started to pick open a
wound that I did not even know was there.

My dog’s ashes are still hidden, a copy
of my mother’s Will is still missing, and last
year my step father found prepackaged
“emergency escape bags” in our basement
along with $250 cash inside the
cogs of our whirlpool.

I’ve heard stories of how my mother
kept documented journals of my father, but I’ve
never had the guts to ask for them.

I’m beginning to wonder what kind of people
my parents really were.  I’m beginning to wonder
just how much of my childhood
I’ve forgotten
                           and how much of it
         I’ve lost.

twelve am - those conversations worth staying up start to flow
one am -  another sleepless night, with thoughts featuring you
two am - the demons come out at night to haunt you
three am - i'm starting to miss you again, missing you more than i should
four am - making up scenarios in my head, of things that we could be
five am - time where I hate myself most & sadness starts to kick in
six am - sunrise is coming, heavy eyes, where sleep is awaiting
seven am - another morning with fake smiles & laughter, pretending to be happy
eight am - only looking forward to seeing you
nine am - a real smile comes along with the thought of you
ten am - telling myself to not break down & cry
eleven am - wandering off having daydreams

tick tock tick tock

ten pm - in my bed, ready to sleep
eleven pm - tossing & turning, just like the usual
twelve am - the same routine everyday

I told you,
you'd forget me
Like that penny in the washer
On a Sunday afternoon
Or the dead bird
in brittle grass
with winter sun

The clothes are dry
The snow has melted
And memory fades as the seas turn to deserts
like the love you had for me

i lie still
in the morning
and watch the sunrise
creep up
my wall
to the white
of my ceiling

bathed in grey light
subdued
by unfallen rain

i wish the rays
of sun
were your eyes
moving
over me

I was a toddler lost in the
Woods at night, awakening from
Sleepwalking.
Mud on my pyjamas,
Leaves and twigs on the head of
My teddy.

My mother's voice stronger
From the front door; crumbs
To follow into warm arms; each
A piece of poetry paving a path
From the opposite of Heaven
To Heaven.

I've seen them in the mouth
Of a Great White breaking surface.  
Heard them in the sandpaper
Sounds of a mother's tongue against
A stillborn kitten's wet fur;
Wake up. Move... Wake up...

I've found them swept under rugs, or
Left by the last boy to climb
The tree to the top and carve
About the view.
I've smelled them when monster-
Biting the tummy of my friend's
Screaming daughter; laughing
Herself to an unavoidable  
Diaper change.

Pieces of poetry  
On centuries old headstones
And toilet cubicle walls. In old
Eyes regaining faith in young people,
Like yesterday on the bus:

A little old lady getting up.
A wave of helping hands to
Support, secure, show respect; every
One of them a piece.
Each finger a letter; each hand a
Word, a complete poem
In the shape of an

Everyday moment witnessed by
A busload of commuters and a
Poet with busy eyes,
Gathering all those little pieces

Of poetry
Into
This.

I am one day older. July 17
My mother has another year
To her name. The sun has risen,
But time is setting – I am
Getting further away from the
Closest thing I had to bliss.

There is something beautiful
And desirable about ignorance,
Something I possessed only as an
Infant, yet I would ****
To hold it once more. **** –
That proves it. Just how far
Am I from those illusive years?

When I was little, nature's
Corpses would be buried with care,
And we would whisper words
To the Earth about who we had lost.
Now, pests are killed by my will,
And handled with disgust.

Yet, I envy them. Their lives,
So easy to dispose of, and mine,
Neverending. But I am the same
As a common moth.
Crush me.