My History in Parts

We took your mother’s car.
(Pushed) through bramble
across mud and rocks.

It ends
in a stainless steel kitchen,
still slick from high tide.

Nothing swallows the hunger,
(or ever does) bite through a fence.
The outline of an overpass,

meanwhile my own (home)
is somewhere between McDonald’s
and the trestle.

We went to the water
(always) I break
the silence into a

ship passing. It wasn’t
the lip of a
rusting can that woke me;

(although last Christmas, yes)

(I watched (you watch) the slow
wind of a clock)

It began at a birthday party (I was)
so pink with present (we wore pearls
in the cradle)

and now how long my fingers
have grown, my mother knowing
(all)

We slid the van door
open
(in the dead of winter)

my father’s headlights
shattered through our frozen
windshield.

I am always (driving) home
(in silence)

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About amyleighcutler

Writer, dancer, vagabond extraordinaire
This entry was posted in fall, Poetry, Summer and tagged , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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