Why I Am Who I Am

Why I am who I am

1. “He brung his brother’s guitar” “Brought.” “Right, right. Brought.”

2: My mother’s perfume. It clings to her clothes, smoothing over your nose as you press it into the fabric. It smells like powder; like a woman’s skin. It smells like comfort after a long day. It isn’t sharp, isn’t sweet. It’s soft and rich like a deep velvet.

3: My father grows hair on his chin, it’s prickly and pointy like a cactus. Dark hair to match what’s on his head in waves. It reminds me of late nights when we’d watch movies while I was little, he’d scratch me with his beard, on my forehead or my cheek.

4. Jacko Packo! Roses. GR. Woodchips. Polly Pockets. Mexico. Music. Sing. School. Writing. Journal. Imagination. Ghosts. Animals. Painting. Express yourself. Self-esteem. Duplex. Basement. Cousins. Diced Tomatoes. Karaoke. Japan. Taquitos. Lime. Fruit. Summer. BBQ. Burgers. Slip-n-slide.

CH 14: Dream Poem

Trapped

Anxiety takes over as

I dash around my house

Like a curious squirrel.

The men try to catch me and

I feel the fear of being

Trapped. I make it outside

And with a burst of

Adrenaline, I run.

Past trees and

over fallen logs.

Into the bush where I turn from

Squirrel to Jaguar.

Everything is passing by fast.

Too fast.

When my human brain

Catches up,

I overthink.

And cannot run so fast anymore.

My legs turn weak

And my anxiety grows.

I am trapped once more. 

CH 11: Photograph Poem

Under the Autumn Tree

We six Keys stand under

The tree. Half of us

covered in black

And three colored like

Autumn leaves. 5 smiles

Expose themselves

To the camera. The last one

Is my father but I believe

His lips know when

The lens is focused.

It’s the only photo my brothers

Smile in. The others show

straight faces and

Tilted back heads like that

Of a dipping bird.

A contrast to the fact that my father

Was leaving overseas again.

He was free for a short

Few weeks. Like my gut

Who burst in laughter.

All thanks to one brother

Messing around before

The cameraman shot our

Photo.

CH 10: Apocryphilia Poem

At the Pound

Short white fur,

Slightly dirty from years of

Work. She sits in

The cage with a tattered

Red bow on her denim

Blue collar.

A yellow nose stands out

Behind metal bars as

Small groups of people

Eye each animal leisurely.

A young girl steps up

To the shiny box and wiggles

Her fingers close to

The fur. An innocent smile

Beaming as she cries in glee,

“Hello, Kitty!”

CH 9: Metaphor Poem

Dog Bite

Soft fur, a playful bark

And a lolling tongue.

I learned that domesticated

Doesn’t mean house-trained.

Twice I’ve been in the ER for

Dog bites. But my scars are

My heart.

You posed like a show dog

And how close you came,

I loved to pet your fur.

To groom you with compliments

And share affection.

But,

I forgot that domesticated

Doesn’t mean house-trained.

And your bite was

One of the worst.