‘you have a way with words’
i heard her say once,
in earnest

but all the words i ever spoke back then were all the words i knew she’d want to hear
so really it was the words who were having their way

through trial
and mostly error,
i have discerned most people would rather not
look at
listen to
a grown woman chart and bellow the sounds & scapes of the
missing cords in her

the older she gets

like watching an elderly man shop for dented cans and bruised fruit
in the back corner of an empty grocery store

but it was the grocery store, with its poise and promise, who first called out to me
as i watched from the parking lot of my foster mother’s hand,
my feeble father dig through the trash can there

it was the storefront of that moment
and all the air that encased it
that seemed to softly whisper,

‘you are not most people’

write the songs,
in your melancholy minor
it’s the only thing that will ever slow the bleeding.

this poem is about the freedom that comes from owning our stories; as a young girl i witnessed my father digging through a trash can for food outside of a grocery store i was about to enter with my foster mother. it had a profound and lasting effect on me.

2 responses to “freebird”

  1. Wow! Raw and powerful.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. […] the last time i wrote about this memory, i said i watched himfrom the parking lot of my foster mother’s hand, which was to say, yes, we were in the parking lot outside the stop ‘n shop in groton city and also holding her hand in that moment felt like being held hostage against a lie i knew to be true. the official receipt of the incident, said that i noticed him, ‘fishing’ through the garbage- like he was your dad just out for some weekend respite at the lake upstate […]


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