by Delaney Keshena
How did I learn to hurt.
Mighta been at the back of an Easy Mac.
Unseen in those instructions:
Water. Heat. Consume.
Seeped in from all that
individualservingexcessplastic.
Maybe in pull, that wrought iron chair.
Journey from under bars,
chair top, counter ledge
defy death with year three balance.
A kid don’t belong in margins,
least that which sits between sink and counter’s beckoning edge.
Microwave hum ‘ll bring you to sleep before that day’s food is done.
Those lessons stuck,
just like you were.
Yeeeeew
You shout.
Small ears pinging blame.
Even years after graduating to the stove
still trapped by ‘mind my own’ and
I guess that’s how i did it
walk on by, while on
Yoooou
You cried.
-that’s how they translated
Prayer from your tongue-
crying out.
Maybe that’s what you were
doing there, on the floor.
praying.
But like they taught us in
that school
Nobody’s gon answer.
Not even hurt-me. Time for you to
learn to crawl up.
All of that, i gave to me
A picture:
Your frame against the bed’s.
Mind’s I can’t blink away
the hurt been dealt
distinguishable even in that dark.
Now, I’m sorrybut
I don’t know if I wouldn’t still walk away.