and i am not the man
who tells you
your scars are luminous
i am poor company
even on the best of days
am worse when
the sky is an iridescent grey
and the rain begins
to fall
what i remember
from my childhood is my
mother crying in the bedroom
while rocks pelted the
front of the house
laughter from the
wooded lot across the street
and the recurring dream
of fire spreading from
room to room
and i wanted to scream
but nothing came out
and so i grew up
to be a poet
disappointed my family
with each new choice and
learned not to care
there are
ways to survive on
