Life Cycles of the Never Was
Falling is the heaviest thing I’ll do today. I promise.
There are eleven steps between here and who I could
have been. I’m holding steady at ten and a half feet
until I am that version of myself — you know the one —
asking my mother not to leave. She does, again and again.
I know the mouse-blonde swirl of hair at the back of her head
better than I know my own face in the late-night bus
window. I’ve gotten on the wrong route again. This one
looks like the two-dollar ferry to the clouds but
lowers its wheels into the tunnels of my veins.
I ride to the undercity. Blue-black rats scurry
like bruises that wash off in the morning’s light.
Every paper that blows is a receipt I once paid.
I owe somebody something but my blood has
dried like paint. Burnt slumber on Route 40.
Blackbirds break the glass into feathered wings,
forgetting what they need to fly.
I flap my arms with fever.
Hollow bones are not enough
to lift us from this earth.
Image taken with iPhone on the bus.
Words written at the coffee shop.
Time Taken 6 minutes.
Brain on the quality of mercy, the wages of sin, the probability of true love.
note: All poems for the month of April are memoir poems in the form of lists