Words From the Fragile Spire

Long Away Lemonwood

I remember my old house –

the hibiscus bushes that lined the street;

the stops on bike-rides to pick the neon flowers,

their long pistils like fingers to touch.

I can remember the vast living room,

with specs on the ceiling like distant stars.

We kept the worn-down couch for a while –

once familiar, then replaced.

I nearly remember when the hurricanes

stormed through. The loosely-shuttered

windows always blew open and woke us up;

my dad always came to shut them.

I barely remember the neighborhood –

the house across the street filled with mirrors;

the house next to ours a model in a trainset,

with a model town and model people for it.

I cannot remember the next tenants.

My parents said they only caused problems.

But the mother's son's left-behind green sweater

fit me perfectly – I still wear it.

I remember the steps along a narrow, sheltered

path of cut grass under powerlines close by –

a journey to some unknown destination.

I remember the path away from my old house.