I come from a family where the men die early,
which is to say
I was raised by women.
My childhood is the toothache suspended in my belly.
At sundown, my cheeks blossom
with undiagnosable demoralizations.
Condoling tongues now keep the bones of a sect from perishing.
My hand-me-downs are but maps
of where water won’t be found.
I cry easy at cartoons.
Harder
still at birthdays.
Tundras of the unfelt elude
even the preludes of my memory.
These men, like mannequins I misplaced in a dream that won’t return to me.
Artwork by: Ferdinand Hodler
