Dirt

1.
I cannot remember the last time
I felt clean.
It must have been years ago, back before
Social media and stomachaches,
When I would forget to wash my hair.
I would jump and run and sweat,
Grass licking my ankles and
Burs from the swamp in my backyard
Sticking to my cotton t-shirt,
Skin rough with the bites of fat mosquitoes.
(did you know that only females draw blood?)
somehow, this makes a lot of sense to me.

2.
my childhood was altogether lovely.
(As always, however, history insists things were better
Than they actually were.)
A few times, my mother dragged me into her bathroom,
Forcing a bar of soap into my mouth.
I didn’t understand why my father
Spent too much time in the basement
And sometimes, with a beer in hand,
Would refuse to drive me to my friend’s house.
Still, I lived on a park
and I played with the neighborhood kids
Until the streetlights flickered on.

3.
today I am lost.
Not just today; yesterday, tomorrow,
Probably the day after that, too.
People are no longer super glue or
Duct tape; they’re day-old bandaids
and dollar nail polish from the CVS down the street.
I have dirt on my palms
But it sticks like oil.
I remember the day I rolled in it and waited
For the earth to swallow me whole.