Member Poem

He knew who he was when he was thirteen years old
All his wobbling knees, and mismatched
tone of his cracked voice which spoke of his age
like rings on the inside of a tree could not stop
him from deciding his fate. He knew.
He knew when he was thirteen when he saw the glistening
gold threaded around blue ribbon that adorned the soft lilac
of the family room, when he first heard the rasp of his
father’s voice grating against his ears with stories of
gunfire and spit filled bullets

At eighteen he became who he was always meant to be
adorned in lace up boots and a neutral top he looked like
his father and soon he found himself in the exact place
his father had always spoke of, crouched and coiled tight
with a splattering of metal raining around him
the whistle of blood surging into his ears. There was a rustling
of trees nearby and with a swing of his arm he readied himself
to meet his enemy, but there was only the rubbing of branches,
the crackling of dry leaves, and the whispers that came from the
wooden looming figures sounded a lot like the voices in his head,
the ones his father had never mentioned

At thirty eight years old he longs for who he once was
He groans at the snap of a rubber band, flinches at the pop
of a champagne bottle, and with the screeching of tires
and the heavy crash that comes with it he returns to the familiar crouch
snaking one scar ridden hand around his chest searching for relief
He does not talk to his father, too wound up in his own stories now,
ones he’d never tell, and he finds temporary solace in the little yellow bottle
on his nightstand. He waits for the day he will stop needing this bottle
and when it does not come he stops waiting for days and instead waits for one
A sunday, two and a half weeks before his father’s birthday,
with an open window so that the wind brushes in and ruffles his hair
He reclines on the twin bed in the dinky apartment he could barely afford
in a neighborhood that never quite felt like home but was more of a home
than the streets itself, presses his forehead into the coolness of the pillow,
reaches for the little yellow bottle, and hears the rustle of the single tree
outside his window. It’s branches scratch against the glass and its leaves
have long since touched the cool concrete that surrounds it, and for the first
time since he knew who he was, the trees sound less like voices.