Origin Found
I was raised on
burlap and
Butterfinger candy
bars. My hair is the
color of garden soil in
dire need of a drink, my
eyes the color of marbles
I planted like seeds. A
sledding slope nose
hovers over soybean lips.
I shower under pivots on
steaming summer days, add
my sweat to soil
like farmers before me.
Where I’m from,
roads don’t glow
from streetlights. We find
our way by moonlight,
and I can tell you what
direction I’m facing by star
maps. We don’t
get lost when street
signs disappear.
When arrows no
longer tell us
which direction to go,
we find ourselves.
Ode
To the man whose hands
Sweat like thunderstorm rain,
Whose eyes sparkle like
Dirty lake water, whose
Words punch like Frazier
Against Ali, to the man who broke
Me, I have just one thing I need to say.
Thank you.
Thank you for chicken
nuggets in the back of the van
that first night we missed
curfew. Thank you for pushing
me on the rickety sled at your family’s
farm on the day I met
your fake grandma.
Our rap battles still echo
in the hollow space
of my car. My
stomach still remembers
the torturous laughter
that came by your hand,
or mouth, I guess.
Thank you for helping me grow.
During my final curtain
call, you were a captive
audience. Watched me
slip on a banana
peel that was Nebraska’s
three-inch-deep ice. Rushed
out to help me up and hold
my hand with your sweaty one.
The dam broke and tears fell.
You taught me kindness. Thank
you for crying as you broke
up with me, even as I was
dry-eyed. You taught me empathy.
I want you to know,
I can drive to your town again, and when
I see trees or hammocks I no longer
think of you. When I hear my favorite
rapper I forget sometimes...
he’s yours too.
I no longer avoid
the book that has your name.
When I see her, I smile, happy
for you. Sometimes I turn on
Bohemian Rhapsody just
to celebrate our first movie date.
Nostalgia is a funny thing, but
I wouldn’t go back. I move forward,
thankful.
Dear Diary,
Mom hates when I have nothing to do, says I cause trouble. Had the nerve to toss her black hair back too. Whatever. When I opened a portal into the kitchen for breakfast she was all “Oh! Sebastian, I told you to stop doing that! The dog nearly fell in.” Haha, yeah. Then I ate some toast and portaled to school. It’s lit, man. You know how I hate Mr. Whitmore, right? Well, today I decided to play a new game. I portal my friends’ desks to different spots when their backs are turned, then laugh to myself when they freak out. Margie didn’t think it was so funny. She’s kinda stuck up though. Really likes to make fun of my crooked nose. Anyway. I portaled an apple across the room at lunch. I didn’t wanna walk over to the line, and I figured it’d be good practice for moving specific objects. I was right. It was awesome. I sent it over to Harlow with a green wink and a little smirk. She definitely wants a piece of this. Free apple, anyone?
Later, at practice, I portaled the ball out of Jace’s hand right before he dunked it. Oh, he was so pissed. I’m smiling just thinking about it. You should’ve seen how worked up Coach got, saying I almost hurt his star player. Except everyone knows I’m better. I even told him that. His face got beet red. I had to run a couple suicides after practice. Whoops.
Portaled home. SIDE NOTE: do you realize how much gas money you save when you don’t have to drive to school?
Momma
You’re a teddy bear for me,
your child, scared
of everything.
When the lights were off,
you were ready to
take on any creature that
dared come out from
under the bed. When you
were with me, I was
unbreakable.
When you went away
to work, I would count
the minutes
until you came home.
I stayed awake, little hands
gripping the blanket to my chin,
big eyes watching for you,
or the monster, whichever came
first. You always did. Momma,
you were always my hand to hold,
but now you’re my shoulder to cry on.
When I go off to college, don’t
wait up, your hands
curled in the blankets.
I’ll come back to you,
and no monster could stop me.
The Treehouse Triumph
“Come on, Ian. Get up here. I know you’re scared of heights, but the view from up here is exquisite.”
She beamed at me from the edge of the plywood that signaled the entrance of the treehouse. If I entered the treehouse. Her crimped hair vanished as she disappeared beyond the ladder’s end with a soft giggle.
I lifted my foot again, shaking a bit before setting it solidly onto the next rung. I muttered a few words under my breath as one hand reached higher, the other maintaining a death grip. Got it. Time to ease that grip. I brushed the back of my hand against my forehead. How could I be sweating this early into the spring?
I pushed a breath through my lips, grabbed the next rung. I could’ve touched the plywood if I wanted to, but I didn’t dare try. Not then. Ever so slowly, I put my weight onto my left foot. Two whole feet higher than it was. I shouldn’t have looked down. Four letter words came to mind. I rolled my head back and closed my eyes against the harsh sunlight. I felt the rough plywood above as it brushed against my fingers, and I clamped down on it. Shaking slightly, I pulled myself up. I threw my arm over the ledge and scrambled up another step. My head broke the plane of the 15ft floorboards, and there she was.
This was where I loved her most. She was so beautiful, sitting there, leaning against that creaking two-by-four and smiling at me over her shoulder. Exquisite view, huh? I couldn’t disagree.
Speak.
You think
texting me somehow
makes me yours, like
you’re the only one
I give my thoughts to,
like my phone number
is your name, like a ring
on my finger shackles my soul,
like I give you a tuition
of thoughts instead of
just a penny.
But college offered me free tuition,
so what makes you think
that a couple kisses
are more convincing than four
years of life changing knowledge?
Who told you that your lips
were worth my secrets? Why
do you think you deserve anything
other than a prison sentence?
When we were alone
with no one around for miles,
you held me so tight
I couldn’t move, or even breathe.
I was locked in the iron
cage of your truck,
captive in the bars of your arms,
I was yours. But not by choice.
You took choice when you
took my voice, but I will not
be silenced. I will write
pages upon pages until
my fingers are bloody, and then
I will write books in my own blood.
When you truly
believe in something
you will do everything
you can to make that belief known,
and I believe in respect.
Because in the words of Nate Marshall,
Respect is Sexy.
You are the 40-year-old who
works at McDonalds.
You are the wind up toy
sold to my future kids who
will forget you just minutes
after receiving you.You
are the meal left out
and thrown away.
I shut the car doors,
lock them,
roll all the windows up
on a hot summer day.
your blood boils
until you’re gone. Because
we are nothing
without respect.
Because you reduced me to
nothing with nothing more
than the steel cords
of your forearms.
I’m not “strong.”
My strength is not
like yours. No, I can’t
bench press 500lbs,
can’t dunk a basketball,
can’t even dangle someone
over a river threatening
to drop them in.
But I can stand up
after I’ve been beaten,
can raise my fist,
but not in violence.
In my fist is a mic,
in my mind are words,
and I will not be silent
this time. I offer up
my tuition of thought
because I am now
with the ones I love,
the ones who love me
back. I offer
my voice
because it is stronger
than force.