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Heirlooms (After Safia Elhillo)
When I was eight, my parents got married
on the living room couch, promised to love and cherish
each other until death did them part. My father survived three cancers.
But to the numb the pain, he cheated on my mother with crack ***.
And my mother was diagnosed with diabetes for being addicted to denial so sweet.
Thus, I was raised strung-out on the false promise that everything was okay.
I spent school days studying the Principles of Art:
to contrast, I spent school nights studying the Texture of the locked doorknob,
the Harmony of mother's yelling with the Patterns in father's banging,
the Movement of emotion from secure to fear— Unity splintered, I earned the Perspective
that nothing can Balance in a home where
a child's smile snaps under the weight of tears.
I've seen love with anchors under my eyes;
in those sunken relationships, every poem I wrote rusted into eulogy.
Now, if a kiss feels like a lifetime, I fear a commitment will be an eternity.
I don't fall in love anymore; I fall in beds with suicidal women
who use me like a cocked weapon—***! When it's over, the bed sheets
resemble a body bag stitched for two. I am not a dog, but to kill this itch
I bury their bones in the soil of these poems.
This journal holds the family plot. I open it and I see my parents trapped
in a hole with shovels madly digging a place to bury the truth.
Dirt piles at the mouth of the hole. I grab my shovel and bury them too.
I shut the journal like a casket; covering up is the family ritual.
Lover, beware— poetry is a parasite lingering on my lips
so I cannot kiss you without robbing your mouth of words.
I cannot promise you the satisfaction of sweat and sin;
I'd rather be intimate with page and pen for these instruments have no heart to break.
Lover, art is my vehicle to heal. I'd rather fill my tank up with joy
but my creative drive has been smoother fueled off pain.
I've turned too many hearts into road kill. So I speed through Forgiveness like a red
light scared that Karma's in my rearview, gunning
to run me into an emotional wreck.
But Lover, I'm tired of hit and run relations, ya know?
I'm ready to wipe fear off my windshield and love with courage and patience.
This crossroad must be confirmation because, you glow like a caution light painting my
eyes gold.
I know pressing the brakes
only provides us more time to celebrate this green light's arrival.
So I'm not yet ready to go. I'm ready to let go and grow.
I'm ready to yield with you.