The Poet

If I was a broken clock.

Would you throw screwdrivers and bolts into my

Toolshed

 

And for everyday I thought it could go away

Would you cast a thousand hugs across my arms

And spill words from your mouth into my brain

 

Until it all turns to rainbows

You thought would come after the rain

 

Would you gather all the raindrops and fill up that bucket everyday

So each friday you could say

Look it’s gotten better

 

Until,

One week it’ll be empty and tossed away to the back of my toolshed

For the next week of rain

I am from a tall yellow house, scattered with long windows to let the light in

From bright summer days by the pool, and otter pops

I am from the steam slowly rising above a rice cooker

(white, but transparent as it curls through the air)

I am from the tanbark in my shoes,

And the chatter of my family bouncing off the walls

 

I am from confidence and intelligence

From Fern and John and the dim light of candles in the dark on Friday night

I am from the Lawyers and amazing cooks

From you’re still learning

and we all make mistakes!

I am from spending whole saturdays praying

From feasts after temple

 

I am from Italy and our family poetry

From Black and white pictures of mystery

To the unknown people who are apparently related to me  

From the times dad chased us through the parks as giggles kept us going,

To grandpas cancer that left the scar of death implanted on me  

 

I am from shelves full of broken toys and fragmented pictures

I am from each memory.  I am in each fragment,

and everyday,

I strive to gather all my missing pieces,

So I can obtain all my once perfect memories

 

Every petal

Plucked

Floated onto the

Iridescent patchy grass field

As green as her handkerchief

Dusted and worn

Because her tears fell like raindrops in winter

Flood

Storms

Through the hallways, everyday as she walks through the beige and empty

Hiding her hurt

And memories