I Have a History of Things that Cling

I have a history of things that cling.
The staccato song of my first scolding,
The brown whip-lash of a cane;
The sticky dew-eyes of girls with wings,
Somebody’s plum of a dress fluttering;
Sometimes the steamy fumes of old rage.
The sorrel-shaded mud of my first flood,
The peeling grainy green paint of a wall,
The sick smell of sugar water and ants.
Dead leaves whirling through the past and present,
Many sheaves of underused notebook paper;
High tides steadily pounding the shore,
Wind that whispers of echoes and lore.
No one else in the classroom —
No one else on the field —
Ice-cold blue made electric by staring,
Made bruising purple by the red of its bearing.
I have a history of things that cling.
I have a history I may not sing.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s