Stitches in Santa Fe
My brain first
turned on
falling hands first
onto the shards of a mug
that my large
trusting
house-humans
believed could be carried
by my dumb little
stupid stupid
toddler hands,
not knowing their
litty tiny
foolish
klutzy
ceramic-smashing
gremlin
would never develop past
a six foot tall
bafflingly incompetent
brittle bird being
with long overcooked
noodles
for arms.
In due time my knobby little
leg hinges
began to grow
and rise further
from the ground
off of which
I did not learn
to lift my stupid
itty bitty baby feet
high enough to cross
the threshold into the kitchen
at that tender age
of one.
As I got older
I learned to carry mugs
and enter spaces with caution.
Although doorways will always
be challenging for my shoulders.
But dancing on fresh hardwood
as a kindergartner is difficult,
and that dance can be
a dangerously delicious
deranged devil
of destiny.
They say that satan lies in socks
(I’ve heard it, I swear)
and this dastardly indenture
devised just that plan,
blending the blood
extracted from my split open chin
with the fresh veneer
of the newly installed floorboards
I was celebrating
with a fatal foxtrot.
So it’s no wonder
my mother is nonplussed
one year later
when the gash in my eyebrow
from a high-speed
piano seat reaches
“new layers of skin
she’s never seen before.”
I go to the hospital for help
but suturing nurses sometimes forget
they’re still attached to you
when gesticulating wildly with their hands.
But with age
comes wisdom.
So I grew up
I grew out,
moving away from the
small city
fertilized with my hemoglobin.
I drove across the country
To find a new life.
A life without cracked knuckles
from the gratingly dry
New Mexico winter air.
A life where I could walk barefoot
without making friends
with the goatheads
that sank their teeth
into my squishy baby feet.
A life
free from
the stitches
and clumsiness
of being any age under
a ripe
old
nine.
I look out the window
as new lands whip by
remembering my one final Santa Fe mistake
My mind wanders back to the day before I left
I can still see Brandon Baca’s stunned face
as I released a stomach bug
from both ends
and ruined his
new Monopoly set
the first and only time
I ever met his Mom.
But I know that foolish
old life will be behind me
as I continue my life
in the promised land
of Wisconsin.
I embark on this new life
This new glorious chance at redemption
surrounded by people
who share my hair color
and know nothing about my painful past
And immediately trip
during a rainy recess
the first week
at my new school
and reopen my chin
in front of all the
Wisconsin people
I
just
fucking
met.
My brain first
turned on
falling hands first
onto the shards of a mug
that my large
trusting
house-humans
believed could be carried
by my dumb little
stupid stupid
toddler hands,
not knowing their
litty tiny
foolish
klutzy
ceramic-smashing
gremlin
would never develop past
a six foot tall
bafflingly incompetent
brittle bird being
with long overcooked
noodles
for arms.
In due time my knobby little
leg hinges
began to grow
and rise further
from the ground
off of which
I did not learn
to lift my stupid
itty bitty baby feet
high enough to cross
the threshold into the kitchen
at that tender age
of one.
As I got older
I learned to carry mugs
and enter spaces with caution.
Although doorways will always
be challenging for my shoulders.
But dancing on fresh hardwood
as a kindergartner is difficult,
and that dance can be
a dangerously delicious
deranged devil
of destiny.
They say that satan lies in socks
(I’ve heard it, I swear)
and this dastardly indenture
devised just that plan,
blending the blood
extracted from my split open chin
with the fresh veneer
of the newly installed floorboards
I was celebrating
with a fatal foxtrot.
So it’s no wonder
my mother is nonplussed
one year later
when the gash in my eyebrow
from a high-speed
piano seat reaches
“new layers of skin
she’s never seen before.”
I go to the hospital for help
but suturing nurses sometimes forget
they’re still attached to you
when gesticulating wildly with their hands.
But with age
comes wisdom.
So I grew up
I grew out,
moving away from the
small city
fertilized with my hemoglobin.
I drove across the country
To find a new life.
A life without cracked knuckles
from the gratingly dry
New Mexico winter air.
A life where I could walk barefoot
without making friends
with the goatheads
that sank their teeth
into my squishy baby feet.
A life
free from
the stitches
and clumsiness
of being any age under
a ripe
old
nine.
I look out the window
as new lands whip by
remembering my one final Santa Fe mistake
My mind wanders back to the day before I left
I can still see Brandon Baca’s stunned face
as I released a stomach bug
from both ends
and ruined his
new Monopoly set
the first and only time
I ever met his Mom.
But I know that foolish
old life will be behind me
as I continue my life
in the promised land
of Wisconsin.
I embark on this new life
This new glorious chance at redemption
surrounded by people
who share my hair color
and know nothing about my painful past
And immediately trip
during a rainy recess
the first week
at my new school
and reopen my chin
in front of all the
Wisconsin people
I
just
fucking
met.