What I have put in my journal is true.
\nThere is no fiction inside me.
\nOnly my dreams flounder in their stories.
\nWhen I speak of trains,
\nthey passed my window as a child.
\nOur house was thirty feet from tracks.
\nI grew up with the body odor of machines,
\nguttural voices.
\nCoal from boxcars on iron lanes.
\nThe dank divinity of coal.
\nStar stones that would glow in our stove
\nAnd darken the windows with soot.<\/p>\n
I grew up with skiffs and sailboats,
\nsailing above the chop of Sandusky Bay.
\nThe quick vibration of a boat
\nin love with the wind.
\nI grew up trailing my fingers in the water.
\nLooking into murky corneas of light,
\ngazing back at my eyes.
\nI grew up with gravel, verbal wars,
\nsunflowers that leaned over me
\nlike old men.
\nI grew up with broken shoelaces,
\nwalls that scampered with mice,
\ntea kettles bubbling above the fire,
\nscarlet tea steaming in the pot,
\ntea for breakfast, every hour of the day.<\/p>\n
I grew up on moldy words in books.
\nI explored without understanding the words,
\nthat lit up like lamps as I learned them.
\nMy childhood was poor,
\nviolent,
\nand sad,
\nand beautiful, still
\nwaking me at night,
\nto see if I am happy.
\nI am.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
What I have put in my journal is true. There is no fiction inside me. Only my dreams flounder in their stories. When I speak…<\/p>\n