Smoke, Onions, Loss

Smoke, Onions, Loss

About my childhood?
I want to tell you everything

was normal, ordinary as milk.
How my father hammered

together a skewed sandbox,
plank seats in two corners,

unpainted triangles over damp
sand. How I kept a secret

place out of sight, bowered
in the lilacs, where on earth

swept smooth I sat and,
sheltered, listened to iterations

of soft rain on thousands
of heart-shaped leaves. How

my mother stood at the kitchen
door, a lit cigarette in her hand,

tears (smoke, onions, loss) blurring her
vision. This is my home ground.