Going Home

It’s sort of like when we were seven
And in the lunchroom we stuck
The long skinny ends of sporks up our noses
And pretended we were breathing white fire

Until the tornado alarm howled in circles
And we huddle-squirmed together
Cramped in the boys’ bathroom
Our heads sideways-bent under urinals

And there the librarian tamed us with
Her boxy angry faces that looked to us
Like the ones on the fictional cars
In the picture books she read aloud on Tuesdays

Yes, going home is something like that.

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A Conception of Me

I was boxed, shipped, and stamped
With a January due-date, an earthly debut-date
Nearly identical to my brother’s two years later

We’ve counted back the months
To see what it was that put our parents
In the mood for love
It appears to have been some mix between
April Fools Day and the frantic close
Of tax season

I can’t imagine that’s a very good sign

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(c) Holly Painter. All rights reserved.

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