Monday, August 03, 2009

Woods In the Forest.

The woods in the forest called my name.
Minerva was my crow; I lost her last week.
She ran away and never came back. Ran
away like my cousin Wilma did when she found
out her husband was sleeping with the pianist,
the man who thought Hitler was insane.
I thought Hitler was mad, but not insane;
insaneness is a different theory altogether,
a different thing, I’m sorry if my words can
connect together better than your words can,
I grew up being alone, grew up getting along
on my own. Some say we are never alone.
That little ghosts follow us wherever we go,
sometimes hiding in cupboards or underneath our
bed, where mothballs usually go.
The woods in the forest called my name.
I wish I could go home. I am in Chicago,
waiting for my uncle to stop drinking; waiting for
my dog, Hercules, to wake up from his nap.
I moved here last week with my mother, my
brother, the boy who fell in love with a stripper
and crawled onto the edge of the world to peer
down into it.

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