Could loss of trust be the way of the world?

i hate this poem

Yesterday, I was in a booth at the pizza shop

with Josh, one of the autistic students I do in-home care with.

Eating a slice of cheese and a side salad,

I felt tiny eyes behind me,

a shallow breath on my shoulder.

I turned around to see a little boy 

ducking his head below the seat,

his curls flouncing as he hides-- 

he knew he has been found out.

"Were you eyeing up my pizza?"

I asked him, playfully.

"Yes!" he exclaimed, "It looks so yummy! 

I'm getting pizza too, whoever

wins the Super Bowl will be the best team

in the world."

Before I could reply, his mother rushed toward their booth

from the counter,

huffing out apologies. "I'm so sorry," she said.

What a spirited little guy, I thought.

Why did she seem so embarrassed?

As I prompted Josh to get his trash together,

the little boy's mother whispered to get my attention.

"Autism?" she mouthed, gesturing toward Josh.

I nodded. 

"Him too," she said, pointing to the talkative little boy. 

"He couldn't even tell me his name until recently."

As Josh and I left that night,

I began to wonder what the barricade is

between the brain and the mouth,

and how therapists break it down,

like in the little boy's case.

"Did you have a good dinner, Josh?"

I asked, as he gazed out the window from the backseat

of my car.

He offered me not even a glance.

in class exercise

I stopped going to Church

in my senior year of highschool.

My father said, "one day,"

you'll find your way back,

in a tone that sounded like

exasperation.

My mother said

nothing.

It's not that I don't believe in

One Lord Jesus Christ the

Only Son of God Begotten

not Made One in Being with

the Father through Him All

Things Were Made

I just don't even feel equipped to speculate.

Every Sunday, for the rest of the year,

my older brother and I slept in,

avoiding the 11:30 mass my family attended.

It started out innocent, my mother remarking

we should go together at 5:30 instead.

We got into his mustang,

put the top down, and headed toward

the Church.

Somehow we wound up at the pizza shop nearby,

at a whole pizza pie,

and I practiced my driving at various golf courses,

highly populated parking lots.

This quickly became a Sunday tradition.

We'd get home just as dinner was prepared,

my mother so upset that we weren't hungry

for Sunday sandwiches,

while simultaneously perplexed.

Missed the Mark

How a glaring insecurity

may yelp, may gnaw,

and won't take no for an answer--

a miniscule entity 

containing the frightening delirium

you mistook for truth.

You blamed me for your internal demons,

saying I somehow highlighted them,

made them more apparent to you,

although I don't recall verbalizing any negativity,

anything other than

praise for your talents.

I picture myself in the audience

at your open mic nights,

at every show you ever played at,

even when you had bronchitis,

even when your voice was hoarse.

Insecurity is not as tangible

as a person,

say, me,

the closest to you--thus I am

the easiest to blame. 

Projection. 

I forgive you,

I hope you know now

that I am not the reason.

the avenues of the drunk

Oft are the nights I lay in bed reeling,

waiting, weak for sleep to overtake me.

Weighted arms, legs, shoulders, run through my head,

and how they've carried me up staircases

gallantly through the scummy avenues

of the dirty, the damned, the tarnished, muck--

shielding my white china toes, porcelain

never feeling the sting of army green shards 

from broken bottles launched off balconies

by drunks in your college town. I wonder 

how much you're like them.  The savored strength of

your body, how sure, softened I would feel

if your steady hands, quiet, touched my chest, 

calmed my frenzied heart, silent lullaby...

Longing leads me to dreadful worry--

stability can't last. Could you and I 

view "us" differently without me knowing?

Gratefulness is mine, still I pray you're true 

as to never be shared with another.

But I yearn to recognize, if I'm blind.

an attempt at a villanel

Repressed memory always catches up

As suddenly as urgently as ferociously, perhaps worse, as the occurrence itself

And that's the truth of it

You'll remember the quiet behind the trees

As you were taken, you'll feel fingers fumble fragile again

Repressed memory always catches up

Damaged, vulnerable, going back to that forbidden place

You won't see it coming, like a rock to your eye

This is the truth

Do not accept Cannot accept Will not allow the new wedge between you and the thick of life

Must not fear, let the storm fall out and flow into the gutter

Accept the truth of it

Although you will recover, if you face it like a solider, unafraid of the wounds, it is a fact--

Repressed memory always catches up,

and that is the truth of it.

Reasons I'll Never Drop Out of College

"Hon, go get me some of that kettle corn,"

she'd call to me. I was her go-to-girl. 

It was the shrill voice of 

Sandy Trimble--my boss, my superior,

with her pronounced Baltimore accent

resounding through the speakers of the walkie talkie

I clutched, as though my job depended on it.

"Sure," I'd say, nervously, glancing over at her

and nodding in affirmation.

She sat on the hill in a lawn chair,

sipping cheap wine coolers,

waiting for more feed.

Every night of the July weekend,

I'd run around changing trashbags,

racing to the office to turn off the lights

just before the fireworks went off,

and not a moment too late,

under Sandy's command.

Then, at the end of the night,

all of us "concert staff" would line up, prison style,

each with a black trashbag,

picking up the wrappers,

cans, bottles, papers, that she pointed to,

demeaned by the dread

of a first job in the summer heat.

Minimum wage,

a 4-12 shift

won about 56$ big ones--

Me making 2 cents less

than my brother and his college-bound buddies,

but trying 10 times harder.

Still, we all made about half as much as Sandy,

who liked me for my obedience,

but hated them, perhaps for the promise of their collegiate futures.

I was too young, yet, for her to tell.

Sandy lived in a world of golf carts,

Sam's Clubs, and here she was,

the only thing she would ever have authority over,

except maybe her retired husband.

Her resentment of their privilege

was made clear by the way she spoke to them over the walkie for all of us to hear,

by the way she didn't thank them at the end of the night.

I had to learn the hard way

that this is how these things work,

the corporate hierarchy of the dead end job,

it doesn't pay you more for potential

that may, or may not be fulfilled.

Forced to tag along by the will of my mother,

I was too kind to be lazy,

too scared of the shamefulness

that would result in being fired.

I just listened to Sandy's orders,

tried to be cooperative,

and committed myself to going beyond.