This one makes no such claim.
Some are written with a certain person in mind;
This one is a rasped yawp, lost on the wind.
Some poems try to tell you where you’ve been
Like the trail of crumbs Hansel left behind
To help him find his way home.
But the birds and squirrels must eat.
Some poems are actually snow
That float down to salve the rutted land.
Some are acid rain on the tongue
At the end of a long distilling run.
Some are the summer clouds,
That mingle in the afternoon haze.
But turn your head for a second
And poof they’re gone.
Some are that perfect wave you’ve followed
Since it first reared its head far out at sea
And regally rolled in to shore only to
Collapse in declasse chaos of froth and confusion.
Some are just baubles,
Dusty half-broken curios from the past
That you carry with you wherever you go.
Put them on window sills
As you move from house to house.
You grow up, have things of your own,
Have kids, have wives, annuities and bills.
You never think of your aging artifacts
But the minute you notice one missing
Is the opening of an old festering wound.
Mine was a candy house with glazed roof
I stole from my mom
When I left for Chicago.
As a kid I imagined
That it contained monsters
And it scared me.
The pebbled texture felt hard and dangerous.
I distrusted the things that promised sweetness,
That could break my teeth if I tried to eat it.
But now I know it’s the trinket
That belongs with me wherever I go,
Reminding me that dad
Is in the woods with an axe,
Wandering night after night
And he won’t ever stop
Until he finds us,
Until he slays the witch
And carries us all back home.