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.