the home
—to my many brothers and sisters of Connie Maxwell Children’s Home
time passes
like a breeze
grazing the tops
of un-barbered heads
disconnected kids
no longer able
to believe in humans
not knowing how
to believe in gods
we worked
we played
we stayed busy to forget
we no longer questioned
or expected
we learned that “silence”
was a response—
at night
we lay in army-surplus beds
& hummed softly to ourselves
lullabies
composed of resignation
_____
on sunday mornings
we’d march to church—
the preacher
would tell us
how jesus loved
the little children
& we’d sing this tune:
“jesus loves me
this i know
for the bible
tells me so…”
sometimes—after church
my grandfather
would drive down
in his hudson
& take me for a ride—
i’d sit next to him
listen to songs
on the radio
& admire that old fedora
he always wore
i wondered why
there were no songs
about my grandfather
i wondered
what kind of car
jesus drove
_____
through fields of summer
burnt boys walking
red dirt turned inside out
by mule-powered plows
down endless rows
clods breaking
under bare toes
all day bent low
broken scarecrows—
stiff fingers
picking okra
picking beans
picking worms
from collard greens
cicadas droning
work songs
each one the same—
sweat-streaked faces
looking toward
unrelenting carolina skies
flying tiny
prayers for rain
that bounce off
heaven’s jammed doors
_____
six-years old
& i knew fighting—
rage always ready
waiting like a rock
in my pocket
half-clad gladiator
caught inside
an impromptu
circle of laughter
glaring at my opponent
calculating the sum
gathered in his eyes
focused
slow-breathing
deaf to any sounds
that might distract
from the task at hand
reptilian brain
devising tactics
of pain—
a need to move
forward & back
at the same time
watching
for that first fist
to arc toward the face
world reduced
to a primal point
strange lessons
more real
than golden rules
that could not hold—
while some kids
filled hollow characters
in dime-store coloring books
we painted each other
by the numbers
_____
these days
i still dream
of running away
slipping
into highway night
headed
for my father’s old place
hopeless box
of bad times
decaying landscape
where echoes linger—
faint outlines
of old battles
that will remain unfinished
my mother:
voices in her head
drip
drip
dripping
like a broken faucet
louder & louder
until she ran for the door
like the house was on fire
i cannot recall
her face anymore
no photo smiles
frozen in place
her voice gray
like something gone
my father:
sleeping alone
behind closed doors
lost in drunken dreams
an imagined world of order
where everything
is still in its place—
outlaw time
is on the run
i cannot hold him
in my brain
features forever fading
i strain my ears
to hear a ghost
mumbling to himself
