Childhood As Palimpsest
There are traces of you as a child each time I
Watch you try on new clothes –
How you bow your legs, stick your butt out, curl
Your shoulders
To look like you may have looked at 9 when your mother
Exhaled hard, told you to stand up straight to see
If those pants really fit.
And then tugged at your waistband, to which you
Would waggle forward and back.
Uncooperative as you would be at 10, 11, 12,
13, 14
Before you became unspeakable.
You are not quite
Worn to that shock blonde boy so often
When you run your fingers wrong
Across the shingles of our house to bring it gently
Down to foundation, before
Carefully constructing the roof back over
everything, how your lips protrude
As if you hadn’t grown into them at all
in 1991 or 1992 during your first year
Away from home.
That childhood is still so curious
Of what might be there
Each time you talk about the
Forest, I recall you are standing
There
At the edge
Of the dark forest
Your long arms hanging down
At your sides
Fingers limp and curled;
Your shoulders curled forward
Slightly
Your weight placed forward
At the balls of your feet
So that your whole body
Leans toward the darkness
As if your body is pulled
As if you are about to launch
To find the source of the
Voices calling out
From the dark forest.
Each time I watch you try on
New clothes
You bow your legs
stick your butt out, and
Curl your shoulders
To look like you may have
Looked at 9
When your mother
Told you to
Stand up straight
To see if those pants
Really fit,
And you are back
At the edge of the dark
Forest
Calling out
Shouting back
At the Bugbear,
We weren’t supposed to leave him behind
He’s asking to be raised.
Althea Seloover, 2020