They Say

They Say

They say they know me
they love me.
          (one little word)
And they know, because They always know.


1. Chocolate medicine hurts.

I was ten the first time I tried
to get away. My fingers, small
compared to the quiet of night
and a bar of death wrapped in foil.


2. Silver earrings

I was ten the first time I held a gun.
It was small, like my hand and silver
as an icicle. I shook and shivered
with the whatif fear of getting caught;
of not
being brave enough to
shoot them, or me, or me.

Getting caught
in their drawers, and they
would re-hide
their wonderful, wonderful toy.


3. Copulatively written for them

The medicine cabinet holds winter
and I am afraid of being cold.

The gun, that I do not own,
is a rope my cousin used
and I am not brave like my cousin.

I believe I could fly,
but there is no safe place

          to fall.

And back to the beginning.

They who say words like, manic,
and hyper
and tired
and food
and family
and functions
and work.

They, who do not see
all the years performed
behind closets
with revolving doors.

They, who present
a pointy arrow from their shoulder,
then expect me to shake.


The woulds and coulds

for they who say
they love me;
they know me.

If I could,
          I would stand
pretty as a poodle.
          I would dance
‘round and ‘round,
toed to a spring,     waiting

for a music box to open.
          I would jump
through fiery hoops,
snug, in leotard and pearls.
          I would ride
a unicycle across dental floss,
if I could.

If I could.

If I could,

I would bet, they never knew I held that gun.