Taken Back
There is no "back," no place where I was born
the schoolyard with familiar trees and grass;
the creek I drank from once, to my regret,
no trace remains, encased now in its burial vault.
A tree with apples once thrust a branch
across a guardrail, dropping unripe fruit
into the grit and dirt along the road.
Passing it, to school, the hard, green, sour flesh
held my attention longer than lessons in history.
There is no back, no tree, no school, no creek,
and where once green apples and bile stank
and dried, alongside raindrops in the dust,
the flesh of memory decays beneath the crust.