From the archives – I knew I’d lost you — Kelley J. White

I knew I’d lost you

on your tenth birthday. Your father pierced
your ears. Walked into my house with surgical
instruments—and you chose it, though I,
I’d reached forty, I liked to say, intact—
no physical alterations, no piercings, tattoos,
scarifications. I didn’t even wear jewelry
or make-up. But you perched on a kitchen stool
and I ran, put your little brother and sister
in the car and cried injustice into your
grandmother’s laundry basket (while she taught
them to fold.) That was the year your aunts
gave you a cookbook and you started to make
an art out of chocolate. I swallowed, hard,
and grew.

from Autumn Sky Poetry 6 — by Kelley J. White

Photo by Christine Klocek-Lim