Poem for Monday, August 31, 2009

Coming Down (continued)

VII.

My Stoic grandmother wants to attend a Cherokee

powwow with me, and I would love to

take her. I will even buy her

turquoise jewelry and not reprimand her for

                being (slightly) ethnocentric.

I love you, Stoic grandmother.

I am part Cherokee. You are part Cherokee (I'd like

to believe you are, anyway). It's all about the

plight.

To my right is a photograph of my weeping father and

my beloved mother circa 1979; they are standing,

arm in arm, in my Stoic grandmother's front yard.

         Father is wearing a gold blazer and a patriotic tie.

         Mother is wearing a white lace dress.

They created me!

The past is a delicate thing; not just my past, but 

all of our pasts. Think about it:

in ????, the world came to be

in 1776, America came to be

in 1963, America's son died

and that's all most remember.

I purchased a 2 liter Coca Cola at a gas station,

and I lost it somewhere from there to my home, and

       I am terribly upset with myself.

        I am terribly upset with myself--that's

how I have felt mostly.

In a town called Wye, we walked through

a field of daffodils and perused through

a tin arts-and-crafts barn with wooden ornaments

and relics of the south.

Manly brother--you and I would cross the

boundaries of the daffodil fields and look for 

snakes in derelict bluebird boxes. We never found any,

             although we were adventurous enough. I came

to the edge of the woods with rotting oak and pine,

             and I felt at home. We felt at home.

Sometimes, when we were at home, we would look

        up at the sky at night, and I would tell you where

Venus was in relation to the moon, the universe, and us.

We both knew that it's simply a sulfuric acid-strewn

        planet with a touch of Greek goddess prestige, but

I always wanted to go there (did you?).

I always wanted to be an astronaut, but I was never

smart enough, and I was never disciplined enough,

and I was never, I was never, I was never.

How sad it is.

Our childhood innocence is not lost all at once

but gradually. We accept what we can do/cannot do,

        what we should pursue/should not pursue.

The poster of the water cycle in my tenth grade biology

class told me two things:

                                           where water went, and

                                           that I wasn't meant to be a

                                           scientist.

If you tell me I'm not meant to be a writer,

then I'll have nothing left.

Don't tell me that.

Don't tell me.

Don't tell me.

Don't.

(to be continued)