You are Young Nonsense

I think of you like childhood candy—
a Pez dispenser cracked below the chin.
Tangy sweetness on my tongue
smooth plastic moments bracing my fingers
camera flash
sour laundry stuffed under the mattress
creaking refrigerator ticking softly
in the next room over.
Seeing your face is
a fuming sauce, so quickly turned awry.
It’s Arielle Cooper shoving me down,
calling me crybaby at Spreckles on C Avenue
because I always hated tag.
I loved playing tag.
New buildings were built
as we walked by to school;
heavy packs full of notes, key chains,
winnings from playground poker in velcro grass.
We couldn’t hold the cards because our teachers didn’t love us.
Egg pickle – let’s go.
The unnamable joy of controllers and anticipation
cheated our dreams in
the prison of dank summer afternoons.
The sun wove clothes out of mole hills,
spun records at discos.
Heidelberg slept through a dozen earthquakes
and someday will draw, craft, create
the shapes of new games to play.
The pierced years have passed
jittery and molded beneath my gaze.
My mother has never left me.
Ich spreche eine kleine Deutsche.
The little candy tabs graffiti your name on buses
and rest their eyes on you.
Your face, gleaming bright with
future tenses, cheats my dreams
suffocated under velcro grass.