These are the first two:
Where have you been? What do you love?
All of childhood's pain & confusion: angry twisted mouths, sharp smack of the flat of the hand on the cheek, the belt being undone as you ran away ran away to your room up the vinyl covered stairs that gave your feet an artificial kissing sound, the walls closing in the walls closing in and locked your door but he broke down the door anyway and only stopped the day you fought back and your promise-ring bit blood from your finger
And in your room alone arose the desire the hunger the desire the hunger the mad need to escape
You found solace in the garden as you always have and always will.
You tore heavy clusters of lilac blossoms from thin black branches and carried them inside to impart their thick perfume--the stems were too short so that they slumped out of the vase onto the pink-line-patterned plastic-top table with the metal trim in the kitchen where you sat with your feet at the heat vent because your feet were always cold. Maudlin tiger lilies were gifts to widow Mary Rasmussen who loved them so and perhaps forgave you a little for not practicing once again but then she made you cry again.
Spiders who wove their funnel webs in the cracks of the chimney came charging out of their tunnels at the experimental bait you dropped into their lairs--from an easily roped ant and sundrious beetles and flies-- but became extremely distressed in finding a confused, wet slug in residence, retreating back into their dark holes to wait out the unnatural intrusion.
Exploring in the dim, moist area between the bushes and garage you pierced your shin with a large, sharp stick. You bled profusely but your doctor mother would not mend it not with stitches or even a butterfly bandage. A large, pale, shiny scar reminds you of it often.
One summer, a turtle climbs up from the river to your lawn to dig a hole and lay eggs. Then it is eighth grade graduation. Your father has bought you a four foot tall teddy bear. He makes you pose in your cap and gown, a rolled up scroll of paper and the teddy bear. A camera clicks. You do not smile. You leave the bear behind when you leave.
Where have you been? What do you love?
Your sister drunk in the basement with her girlfriend; you burn butter to hide the smell. Your father drunk in the basement later with his cocktails and TV. You hide from him. Your drunken lover that blackened your eye and ran the pillow red with your blood. Your spouse that you taught to drink who broke many things including your spirit for a while.
Walking home from the store, men go to great lengths to solicit you as they have ever since you were twelve as they did even when you were goddamned pregnant. You do not answer them. You do not acknowledge them.
You kept the lily of the valley for yourself in the strip of grass next to Mrs. Daising’s house: uncut and only gently caressed it with your finger. Simple, white delicately perfumed. Waxy pure perfection. No bell ever rang so true.
Where have you been? What do you love?
4/20/2001
Ingrid Karklins