napowrimo #12/#1 (or, tardiness).

at mark's suggestion, i am going to attempt to begin (quite late in the game) national poetry writing month, where i write to a prompt every day. this is in order to overcome writer's block. this one asked "where you came from," i think. so, pieces of my childhood, i guess:

The firstborn’s first years elicit so many pictures
that if photographs were bread slices
we could feed several small countries.
I have all of mine
in a box, wrapped up with ribbon.
I put them there to hush their voices.
Childhood can be enjoyed
in the immediate
or from a distance,
but not in between.
The streaks down my back were sketched
with all the fright of one-windowed bedrooms in the dark
and redeemed by safe-house fortresses constructed
of nothing more
than extra sheets and all of our pillows.
(and that flashlight we stole from the Mormon neighbors’ shed.)
“Balanced” is the construction paper
of today’s coloring books.
But if that’s the case,
then my childhood
ought to have been medicated.
I had a strong affinity
to things like barking and crying,
and accidental philosophizing
(this concerned my caregivers,
I was simply proving
my less-than-ideal individuality.)
I believe I am more of a child now
than I was then,
so I enjoy the distant with pretended immediacy.
I think I like looking at the sky,
because I imagine that I am looking
for another lens
to take these pictures,
so I might have to unwrap the box
that I tried to hide
under the sheets,
just to test the strength of the safe-house.
And sometimes,
when I am very tired,
or very honest,
I believe the stars
are nothing more than faraway camera flashes.
pointed just at me.