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Memory
When I was four, a man
selling flowers on an island in the center
of a city street, leaned into my father´s
car window and placed one in
my hair. More than petals, I remember
the dirt beneath his nails
as if he´d just pulled those flowers
from a garden, and for me only. My father
drove forward, his eyes
flashing quickly
in the rear view mirror. Pale
seeds, or tiny eggs left blind
in an abandoned nest. Tonight
the scent of burning sage
blossoms over the boulevard
and lip of shore. A man bundles
the dried leaves with colored thread: blue,
red, gold. His hands
are quick and open. And the smoke
touches me, brushes
through my hair its grey wing.
Etymology
Testosterone, strange that you´d let me
give birth
to my own body
even though I know I´ve always been
a boy, moving
toward what? Manhood? A constant
puberty? I could replace my menses
with a thick needle
filled with your fluid, thrust every
two weeks the rest of my life
into my thigh. And I think
of the six days of creation before
god rested, because I too am tired
and because my voice, would it suddenly be
god-like to me, thundering,
waking in a deep vibrato as if from atop
a mountain, maybe Olympus, maybe
a lightning bolt shot sharp
through my heart because I am
startled, scared, delighted? Testosterone,
you are the Magnetic
Fields, Elvis, and molasses, the first time
I heard Nina Simone sing, unsure of her
and my own sex at age 13. You are
an eighteen-wheeler ripping through
a hail storm, the umpire breathing
over the catcher´s shoulder until
the ball burns into the mitt
and there is the deep growl
ascending, Strike one!
And I am struck
hard by the beauty of you. I am
again an eight-year-old boy, simply
admiring a tree in the school-yard, my only
friend, who lifts me
and lifts me so that I can pick
its single spring
flower, the lowest one, maybe
for my mother, maybe my father –
but end up placing it inside
my first and only dictionary, a gift
from my father on the ?rst day
of that school year. And later
when it has dried, wilted, I
remove it. Only a stain left, small
shadow, the handprint
of a child quieting the words
it covers, tucks into his
memory, already knows by heart,
and keeps there, where they wait for him
until he is ready.
