Monday, March 19

When You Ask Me Where I Come From



I hail from the East!
A wild, incorrigible beast
Not even the Atlantic could bear to seize.
Human spitball of the sea
regurgitate further inland.

Norfolk, was I too big a burden to
cradle along your coast
that you cast me into the mountains?

And from that vast fountain,
bubbled my first
inclination of Home.
Just like a child, I inclined
toward the sky,
with one sole intention:
to bike my way down that hill.
Wheels punchdrunk on mud,
of course I crashed,
heart spilled across the pavement,
Yet still, I stayed filled,
stayed full of fountain until
I ruptured that mountain's skin
and bled into the snow.

Asheville, can you forgive me for
outgrowing your flesh and limestone,
Bone of bark trunkbody?

Or even when disembodied,
the DNA lingers inside the blood.
Flood of snowpuddle finger my feet,
Tentacle my underskin with cold.
Old Cold wants to know
How I plan to master tenacity 
If I do not face the cruel audacity of winter.
I want to tell it: 
“I don’t know, man, I’m all of eleven,
your nuance toward death is beyond my prepubescence."
Everything I knew about heaven,
were the angels who melted at the first sign of sun.

Still, it was you, Columbus,
who taught me how to mourn.
Small town fists broke bounds of
my fractured, aching rib cage. 

Which prison break staged 
a teenaged daydream—
Stunt like a pauper, fall like a king.
I had it all, but was all but dying,
Do you know what I mean?
Ohhhhh-hio 
Gilded wasteland 
Whose rollinghill mother 
Birthed a bastard wolf 
And would not or could not nurse 
The mess she’d made
(How could I suck from her milkpoison 
And then pray that I survive it?)

Did you hear me, Cincinnati?
When I crawled out your cervix, crying
Only to bang at your valley gates to let me back in?

Lovesong-void haiku,
Northeastern intermission:

So I ran outside of you, Keene,
Sprinted fireball of lightning strike flung
Across your royal forests.
How I envied your adornment!

But because I was naked and ashamed,
I finally understood mercy.
Yes, I am scarred back and bloody knuckles,
dirty south all up in my fingernails-
it is here I am forgiven.
Yes, I am knocking knees and two left feet,
it is here I am forgiven.
I have never been this alone before,
I have never felt less forsaken.

I am listening to you, Atlanta,
talk back to me, my sweet.

about// Because I moved around so much as a kid, it's been hard to identify one specific place that I consider "home." I suppose this poem is my way of trying to figure that out.