My Childhood Dog Jessie Once Ate A Box of 120-Count Crayolas and Shat Speckled Rainbows for a Week
I used to think everything had meaning— and it does.
—Mary Ruefle
And how was I supposed to
not look for her
leavings like Easter
eggs or mud
pies with sprinkles
in the tall summer
grass? My humor back
then—fast
to ignite, like Vicky
Volvo’s backseat
upholstery
when my mother’s
cigarette
wind-whipped
out her open
window and back in
through mine.
The little burn
on my thigh
like a tiny camellia,
the blister’s
petals angry
as the lie.
Don’t show this
to anyone, she said.
They’ll think—
they’ll think I—
I butterflied
my heart
like a shrimp
over that. And
when I asked
if I could call
my grandmother
about the rainbow
shit, mom said, Some things
we just don’t
talk about.
I didn’t understand
delight
not shared.
Or pain.
Soon, the blister
melted back
into me.
Like joy.
My forgetting—
human, plain.