The candy shared in days of youth
Has melted in our mouths,
And left a taste so bittersweet
It lingers on the tongue.

But with each year that sweetness fades,
And bitterness we chew,
Then swallow down like sugared stones
We wish to taste anew.

A Stepmother’s voice cuts
through the campground:
Who left the cooler open?
Who moved the ******* cushions?
Her words snap the branches.

My father, just arrived,
hat wet with sweat,
stooped to tie the boat off at a tree,
met at once by her complaints,
her tally of our failures.

Her glare pressed hot against my back.
I climbed the pine,
legs scraping bark,
eyes fixed on the shimmer below-
anywhere but here.

She was there:
elbow on the water’s skin,
hair spread like wet silk,
eyes pouring over me.
Come with me, she said.

Where?

Down there.
She smiled, copper arm pointing to the deep.
It’s warm.
The fish brush your skin.

I remembered: sirens don’t save you.
They keep you.

She dove,
silver tearing water’s face,
and the lake closed like a locked door.

When she rose,
her shoulders gleamed like knives.
Laughter rolled toward me,
the same heat as the shore,
only sweeter.

Your turn.

I leapt.
The lake’s mouth closed over me.
Green-gold everywhere.
Her hair against my cheek.
Her tail’s slow beckoning.

I followed
until the light shattered above.
I almost stayed-
not to drown,
but to live where the voices could not reach.

Years later: again

on the heath, and in the pit --


I loved to lie in.

I remember with clarity
and such clear vision,
I was four years old,
and was being shown
the first time in this,
old house of bliss,
I chose my bed-room
by the street's road
window open
to birds and bees.
Spring's air smelling
Now its
my prison
as I'm scared
of the outside.
I wish to be me again
and not the grains
of loss of friends
and family,
the sand pours
without haste,
slamming doors
and this I created.
I haven't left the house
for a straight
18 months.

The beauty of graceful sunsets lost,
the price of non rewind deep wound cost,
addict blows the ***** itching & bleeding,
losing cardboard parts to a child laying
in the sun as the needle stings & pierces.

Lost a deep nerve frantically fierce,
reach out and touch the piercing stars,
its time to play so lets rehearse,
dream of kingdom comes remains far.

Fire in his belly as liars are on the telly
ramble and scramble, pretend to be able
screaming, ranting, pointing bony fingers
as flesh becomes death at their two cents.

" Mummy, what will I be when I grow up?"
"Son, you'll be an astronaut traversing
planets with your eyes of curiosity,
making me proud upon my death."

Sits in a ***** crack house smoking
visions of a mother's paternal dream.

Death dies when hands tremble
leaves my side to inhale her last breath
to a truth that sees behind a lost face.

Poetry is a rumble of the garden's bees
with one spin of a roll of the dice,
protects his queen and dies a hero
and the white leaves his eyes
and the ants rip into his torso.

What's a feeling of a sting ray's given
when provoked to rise and strike?

Moving rocking chair in this haunted room,
you sat in and knitted up the memories,
brushing my face as a child with a broom.

Alice on tv,  with a scope on mushrooms
one born to eagerly fulfil his imagination
of a toy soldier and a world of fantasy.

A death knell will sound the night....

i got woken up
before the sun could rise.
furniture scraped the floor
as the moving van arrived.

my father shed tears,
kissing the cats goodbye.
i was only seven
when their divorce
was finalised.

the next time
i was eight,
only six months
wiser than before.
my mother said
it was all a mistake —
we couldn’t live
like that anymore.

there were no cats
to bring back.
belongings were sold.
when we moved again,
we snuck out
during the day
so my father wouldn’t know.
it was better that way.

we lived hidden
in a half-house
under a tree,
as if the branches
could smother
the echoes
of the screams.

my brother returned,
shaping a new family
with a girl.
although a bit crowded,
for a moment,
i swear we were happy.

in between the bags
and the weight of living,
i jumped into
the arms of a boy
who gave me an out.
his smile felt like escape,
but left me empty
and dry.

a decade later,
i found a house —
not a house.
a home.
in a country
i was meant for.

they didn’t speak my tongue,
but accepted my love,
even the way i failed
and learnt.
the love was unconditional,
and asked for nothing
in return.

it took sixteen attempts
to find one i could own.
and now that it’s mine,
i never want to leave.

if i made a move,
it might stir the darkness —
the kind that still breathes.

sometimes.

and i need
to let it sleep.

i miss the simple life
in the way we all do.
bringing water
from the well –
the blue one –
at every street corner.
collecting firewood
so the winter stock would last,
toasting bread on the fireplace
brushed with a garlic clove,
and salt.

i remember the signs
in windows,
people selling eggs.
creeping into the barn,
scared of spiders
and chickens,
but still collecting them,
while still warm,
and fresh.

we’d scavenge
at the edge of town –
never allowed,
but we went anyway.
swimming in ***** waters,
slick with chemicals
and gasoline,
we didn’t have allergies
to the world.
just rolled around
in grass and dirt,
not caring
what lay beneath,
or might bite.

once, we let the cat taste
the tomato soup
from my mother’s bowl,
while she was on the loo.
we snickered,
choking on laughter,
watching her savour
every spoonful.
we were partners in crime,
my brother and i.

i even miss the smell
of the old theatre.
its worn-out curtains
heavy with nerves
as we danced,
competed,
recited poems,
pretended to be
one of the great
figures of the past,
and lay on the cold,
hardwood floor,
covered in dust.

i could list
these memories for ages.
what it felt like
to be a child.
weightless.
magical.
curious,
and bright.
i wanted to grow up
too quickly.
when i should
have held on tight.

I was four
Still sleeping with my mama because I was scared of the monsters that were told in my storybooks
I was four and eating Mac and cheese off a big colorful plate with a big scoop of ice cream for dessert
I was six when I got driven to school
With the ponytail grandma put in my hair
I played with boys and girls at recess and came home with dirt on my clothes and would ponder at night what would happen tomorrow
I was eleven when I cut bangs in my hair
And started choosing what I wore to match the girls in my class who were skinny compared to myself
I always blamed the Mac and cheese
I slept dreaming of a boy I thought I loved until I was thirteen and he only wanted my body
I was sixteen when I said I hated my mama
Despite her always wanting me to sleep in her bed because she too was scared of the monsters, but the monster was just her daughter who had formed so much anger at the world, but deep down it was just despair
I am now seventeen
Seventeen sleeping in a cold, dark room every night and waking up with a sense of dread
Seventeen when mama stopped asking me to sleep with her, because someone took my spot
Seventeen skipping meals and not eating Mac and cheese, because of the numbers on the side of the box
Seventeen thinking I will never fall in love
Seventeen wishing she did more to protect that little girl
Who ate Mac and cheese with dirt on her clothes

When I was a child
I played with the egg carton
scattered paperclips around the house
bottle caps
nail polish
anything
that could be a passenger
on my spaceship