a lament
I've been wanting to write a poem
about the loss of my words
about the man who smashed the window of my side door on Christmas Eve
while my sister and I took shot after shot of vodka
in the kitchen of grandma’s house
to numb our minds
in preparation for the “party”

a memory
from last year’s Eve
rising voices
“if you read the Bible, Layne
[if you were one of us]
you might have some basis for your beliefs!
now you come here and tell us
it’s okay to be a homosexual? or a Muslim?!”
my sister sobbing in the front yard
the cold tiles of the bathroom floor

I wrote a poem about that night.
I never responded to their raging accusations of heresy
just walked out, silent, and wrote it down
“you. are. not. my. family.”
the click click click of smooth letters
typed up the pain, gave it a title
and saved it in my “personal” file
to mingle with the poetry of worse nights
of cancer scares and suicide
of panic attacks and prisons
of “didn’t you hear me say no?”
all saran-wrapped and transformed into stories on my laptop,
neat and coherent.

I find it strange to write this poem
knowing it is solitary
knowing it’s the first
and last
in my collection now

memory
fourteen days ago
I step into my bedroom as if a stranger
my dresser is laying open
drawers sprawled out, invaded,
the content evaluated and then discarded
panties strewn across the wooden floor
jewelry box broken and empty
and then
no
no
he didn’t take
he didn’t

and it’s gone.
I want to find him, hold him by the shoulders and say
empty my bank account.
take my jewelry
take my bed, my heater, my guitar
all of my clothes
just don’t take my words
don’t take my sanity
my record
my therapy
my living memory
all I have created

I’ve been wanting to write that poem
but I find it too sad to know it is solitary
that it’s the first
and last
in my collection now
a library of barren shelves
with one book
struggling, impossibly, to hold up my world on its frail shoulders