Monday, July 10, 2017

POEM: Petrichor

I will not
denounce the
things that make
me odd when
it’s my time.

I will not
bequeath them
or lock them
away in a safe.
This is how

you recog-
nize me in
our day-to-
day dealings:
my nebbish

look, my com-
pulsions, the
rattle of
me. How I
flick the light-

switch off then
on before
bed; how I
unlock and
relock the

doors, or the
duck-like way
I dance, not
caring a-
bout rhythm.

Even those
things I grew
to hate most
about my-
self: my body,

my mind, the
awkward way
I start con-
versations,
these are a


bag of screws
I carry
around, an-
nouncing to
the world who

I am, how
you know me,
long before
I occu-
py your space.

(Where do these things go when we are on our own at last?)

These parts, I
will gather
in a metal-
lic box that
you may o-

pen when-
ever you
wish and, like
the petrichor
of summer,

inhale and
remember.




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