After Emily Dickinson
When I was a Little boy, I was Carved From My Mother
During Tangerine season—Her Skin a rind
Peeled back—Ghost Orchids Bloom
In Swamps—Precious Little things—Petals like lapels
Of Organza—Delicate, Rare, hunted—it takes so much
To Keep Surviving—In Denver
Daycare I was always in Trouble
For pulling Hair—for biting—you Know
Snow on the tips of The Rockies turns Blood
Orange at Sundown? I know violence
Is a Language that Changes Hands in silence—
On the back Porch of the House on Jade Hill
dad pinned Mom down & broke Her
Glasses—once My Sister blacked out
from Airway constriction—Mom chased dad
With a Kitchen knife — Familial conversations
Header photograph © Amanda Lee Calderon.
About the Author
