Talking Doorsteps: I Can’t Not


I can’t not write about it because I’ve
held too much dust that never turns solid because we carry hurt into our
homes, because over all this time we have stayed the same and on we just now found
out what that meant, because my house is quiet and songbird mornings and yours
paint stained carpet and cacophony windows. hese are the places we veneer
ourselves because every poem is a floorplan of her burnt house my uncle nailed his rib cage of a gas cupboard shut, his father must have buried matches
in his lungs. Love is not their combustion I can’t not write about him it’s only
fair because he wrote so much about me told my dad to tell me how to be, wrote
poetry describing the treachery awaiting me because I disagree and then made
everyone around me worship it, because it shifts faster than I can keep up with it,
because you told me what my religion was and you said to cut my hair. Because I
hold flowers like I used to hold my brother’s hands, because I was shaped
when Dad converted the garage into our bedroom, bunk beds like shoulders like
stepladders folding, there is an angry staircase in each of my uncle’s thoughts,
or do they not see that their arms are the corridors that make them all whole,
He teaches me how to swim, but not how to be comfortable in water. So I backstroke like
baptism, like backwards, like darkness like do, this I said so. I hope the water
that doused the fire was holy, I hope that there is holy in the hoot. I
learned how to float how to make my body and phantom limb, learn how to have
conversations silently. Every pen stroke is a prayer for forgiveness. Forgiveness
I give myself.

1 thought on “Talking Doorsteps: I Can’t Not

  1. This was an amazing video to watch. I loved the synergy between these three. "He teaches me how to swim, but not how to be comfortable in water." That line was amazing. There was so much wrong and so much right with that piece that I just had to nod. Amazingly well done.

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