Between home

It is the third,
and every day I have heard the call of June,
because I said I would try,
said I'd dive in an onion
left growing in the darkness of my blue.

It is Monday,
and I remember Mondays,
climbing on the kitchen counter hunting food
because food didn't come
the way it did for other kids.

Remember
wanting to plunge forks in their eyes,
for all they had and all I held
in their in betweens of education.
Would get myself thrown
from class for the sake
of the systematic, reliable quiet
of the library.

Remember washing her skin
of oil and grime, like it was bleach,
lifting on nine year old shoulders
the weight of obsidian pain,
daggers in the base
of a thirty year old spine

- the forms,
where I would go
if she didn't survive,
stroking her hair
in the depths of night
when savage fever
took her throat, bile bleeding out.

Remember the vulnerable
in between the bites,
and how happiness was found,
running naked under a projected hosepipe
in the garden my grandparents
made an Eden, all mine

- scent of Syringa
calling me home,
verdant green,
where light was found.