eternal niche
There is nothing wrong
with me. My mother's a saint—
the gold-touched, gypsy witch
who spoke to God over porcelain,
tea, biscuits and cigarettes.
She hunted curses, a vigilante,
wove knives through the air,
chanting prayers in tongues,
while I sat in old smokey's chair
in our law-abiding house.
Like any ravenously curious child
I studied the other families,
felt akin to a grave robber
prowling a memorial park—
a hungry mutt, at times a zoo-cat.
I water the grave flowers,
warm-eyed at the sight of
parents lifting their children
like boons from the gods,
while I burn under the sun.
Normalcy was a delicacy.
Being poor, I carved out pieces,
stole with my gypsy eyes,
filled my chest with their fire,
like my mother her cigarettes.
Mother taught me to exorcise—
“a kleptomaniac hand
grasping the empty air
is its own kind of demon”
So if you pass a memorial park
and see a boy shaped like a man,
there is nothing wrong with me.
I am only draining
the ghost of a child.
fresh violet
stray plover
shell scarab
karmic urchin
lofty lagoon
brisk mural
smoky plinth
odd escarp