Breadcrumb #685

ANNA GENEVIEVE WINHAM

I stand next to him, like I always do,
ask if he wants to be alone, return to the car
and watch him miss her, feeling broken too. 

A flickering screen’s crackling voice does not imbue
the bubbly cuddles she’d give if she weren’t far.
I stand next to him. Like I always do

I say something nice, lighten the load, or try to,
but it’s not right. There she is. Here we are, 
and watch: he misses her. Feeling broken, to

rush time we find night too soon. He knew
her absence would scab each day a scar.
I stand, next, to him. Like I, all ways do

return to ruminations on this glue
which binds them, seals a door once left ajar.
And watch him miss her! Feeling broke in two

I know I have to go, but linger through
another moon, another turn around the star:
I stand, “next!” to him, like I always do, 
and watch him miss her feeling broken too.

• • •

Breadcrumb #684

KOSCINA RENAUD-TATE

Never quiet
No street is silent
On the porch
With my head in the clouds
Sweet scents of summer
The warm touch of the wind
Gives me life
When I’m near death
Revives me
A place I know too well
A porch that holds many stories
My safety blanket 

Fire hydrants without the cap
Children skipping through
Forceful waters
A hot summer’s day
Laughter overtakes the block
Smells of charcoal burn my nose
Mr. Softee sings to me
Oh to be a Brooklyn kid again 

The sweet sounds of the steel pan
Hastily creeps throughout the parkway
Bright and colorful feathers perfectly placed
Massive headdresses and skimpy costumes
They dance, jump, and hop
It’s a celebration
A poof of powder takes me away 

Venturing out of the borough
I hop in a dollar cab
Tightly packed like sardines
I roll down the window
Brownstones line the street
Spike Lee’s Do the Right Thing
Blasting Hot97 from a brownstone’s stoop
These streets are always on the move
The Jamaican accents linger in the air
As reggae blares over the speakers
Sharp turns and honking horns
Speed demon drivers
I finally arrive 

Hot and muggy underground
Swarms of people anxiously wait
The 2 train screeches to a halt
The announcement plays
Flatbush Avenue Brooklyn College 

Where to?
Manhattan or the Bronx?
Staten Island or Queens?
These four complete the five
A quick visit with an undecided agenda
Friends or shopping
Sightseeing or lunch 

I abandon the porch
But I always return
To the place I fell in love with
My birthplace
My home
The Brooklyn kid
Lives in me

• • •

Breadcrumb #682

KATHRYN POWELL

I. 

What I mean by mother is the woman I imagine / swarths of memories pieced over the plains of my childhood / those plains /  I mean the mosaic of memories / barefoot in the backyard, stubbed toe on sandbox / apple tree falling green orbs watch for worms / memories / I mean eat cake when it thunders / I mean sit on the porch in the thunder held close to her breast / as the grey waves roll / her brown curls caress my ears / face buried in her neck / we count together: one / two / three / how many miles will it be / storms can’t scare us / though she taught me / to be prepared: cans in basements, bathroom battery radios, extra blankets / These memories build a mother.

II. 

My mother / I say she is my mother, because I mean she is / mine / she named me / raised me / cultivated me / my / mother / taught me to write straight with my papers slanted / circled misspellings and filled in the commas / slipped poems in my lunchbox / I grew tall / I am older now / I see myself in my mother / I mean I see my mother in / me / filling the dishwasher bowls first / drafting small poems to give away / biting the tongue to think / but I am not / a mother / and my mother was not / always / my mother / who was she before / our prairie / this woman who was not mine / I do not know her.  

III. 

That prairie sky, I mean / that space that always reminds me / of mother / my / mother / prairie sky / big bright and blue or suddenly grey / wisps of cloud floating by / out in a blazing sunset / I remember summer evenings / driving with my mother / across prairie plains / Once she turned to me and said / I love the prairie / because I love the wind / car windows rolled down / brown curls skipped across her shoulders / orange sun dipped / under golden tassel-tipped / fields / When was this memory planted? / I don’t remember / All I remember / is that the wind / pulls at us both / calling us to look / Look up / little ones / see how little you are / says the breeze / in its own little poem / as it pulls our long hair / swirling strands out the car window / on a summer day.

• • •

Breadcrumb #678

KOSCINA RENAUD-TATE

Mommy speaks to me every day
I look and stare
My head spins around in confusion
I move my lips
But nothing comes out 

She’d take me to the park
As I watch the kids play
I wonder if I could join
Muster up the courage to talk
But yet another failed attempt 

The kids try to play
They think I’m shy
A solitary play type of guy
Their words travel through my head
A jumbled up mix of alphabet soup
And yet again I’m stuck
Silence 

I can tell Mommy cares about me
On this nomadic journey, she left everything behind
She dealt with my aches and pains
Her hugs and kisses spoke volumes of love
And my response
Silence 

I guess Mommy got tired of this silence
As she slept in this expensive hotel suite
It crept up and haunted her at night
Money doesn’t cure all
It was a nightmare on Fifth Ave.
Something was eating at her
Silence 

She gave me a handful of candy
It wasn’t my favorite
No tangy taste or colorful wrappers
But Mommy seems to enjoy it
I’d do anything to make Mommy happy
My eyelids were weighed down
Guarding glossy eyes
Mommy hugs me tight
As she babbles in the background
Helpless and disabled
I say nothing
Silence 

Silent no longer
My presence is absent
These bouncy blond curls locked in a box
As 8 years replay in my mind
Silent no more
My voice is heard
This 7-letter word was the death of me
Silence 

[Anatomy of a Poem – Rest in Peace Jude Jordan
Autism is not the end]

• • •