A Poem From My Inner Children

There is something about
the water, and my clothes
are too tight.
Everything about me,
too much.
But then there’s
Sunday.

Drawing, writing.
Great Gran’s soaps
Cheesy grits, eggs & toast
With the jelly.
The smell of antiques,
and down pillows.
Hard wood floors.
Lined notebooks.
Crayons.

St. James.
Church, and
walking to Aunt Mary’s
after school.
Flying on the trampoline
and climbing trees.
When did we stop
being super heroes?

Sometimes when my
skin is razor sharp,
I remember,
Walking through Woodsfield
in the rain.
Sitting silently in
the laundromats.
James.
The swing behind Rosa’s.
Samhain at Cody’s.
That one kid, with the
bleached hair, that eventually
became my husband.

Sneaking into the pool,
and Jones Soda at the park.
Fall leaves on the creek.
Kickball in The Field.
Sneaking into The Woods.
Cops and Robbers around the
block and that time they caught us
drinking in The Clubhouse.
When The Big Pool closed and
every time they told us we couldn’t
hang out on The Boxes.

Almost late again,
sleeping in the Library.
Headbands and buns.
Casual dress.
Class in the Chapel,
and that time the
pipes burst.
Drama, and Mean Girls.
Tears, and secrets.
Redman.
Most Likely to be
Found in the Studio Room.
The Green Machine.
Winning at Tug-o-War,
and still losing.
My body is already
Bosco Sticks, and weed,
bandaids and bubblegum,
held together by hope,
for now.

Healing enough
to learn that
healing
is never over.

Stepping out
on the other side.
Thirty years later.