Independence

Undreaming the Catfish

We returned to the old house in
summer, ran crazy patchworks
in the overgrown yard and stitched
ourselves back together with fireflies.

We bathed in the familiar water that
always smells organic, green with algae
and the slightest hint of decay, defying
the tap to camouflage its provenance.

I rinsed my hair with vinegar, not
caring that it stung my eyes, despising
you as I went over my grandmother’s
recipe for red velvet cake in my head.

We made noise, joyful thunderous
cacophonies, shrieking laughter and
gleeful shouts that exclaimed our presence
and thumbed noses at you and your rules.

We ate sticky sweet barbequed
chicken with our fingers, ringing our
lips with brown sugared sauce, grinning
like three lunatic Al Jolsens in negative.

The two of them napped in the shade,
bellies full and snoring; I bit my lip and
wondered if I would ever forget the first time
I noticed your sharpness with my children.

We stayed up long past our bedtimes, knowing
without saying that we had risen above you,
leaving you to muddy your own waters,
leaving you to stir your unhappy dirt alone.