It
was the year your mother
put
her cigarette out on your arm.
The
year you forgave her so hard
you
stopped crying for good.
I
was on the other side of the world
watching
my father shine his knives.
I
was trying to get the nerve to tell him
who
to kill.
But
he never figured out
there
was someone to kill.
Collected
knives like art
and
hung them on our walls.
That
autumn I made a person
by
stuffing a pile of dead leaves
into
an old pair of clothes.
Maybe
you did too. Maybe
you
found a pumpkin for a head
and
dug it hollow with your hands.
Friend,
if memories had been seeds
we
could have chosen not to plant
do
you think we would have ever found each other?
Do
you believe in the magnet of scars? I believe
people
who have been through hell
will
build their love from the still burning coals.
Our
friendship is a well-heated home
where
we always agree on what is art
and
what is something to sharpen
and
hold in our ready hands.
In general, and specifically, thank you for this. I teach poetry to incarcerated women, and come to your blog frequently. *They* introduced me to A. Gibson; you've introduced me to so many more poets writing about the ravages of life. Thank you.
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