Questions—the adolescent years

filled with questions.

 

Not ordinary, angst-ridden,

social engaging, juvenile

thoughts.

 

No, mine centered on a man.

 

Where was he?

Did I look like him?

Did he love me?

 

In the days of seeking Easter eggs

through grape and squash vines,

chased by chickens and geese with

a Siamese cat named Gumdrops,

I was fooled to believe what was in

front of me was truth.

 

In the search for answers, I found

what I thought was missing in front

of a bar with dirty blonde hair,

a swollen red nose, and dark circles

under his pale blue eyes.

He resembled a swamp rat

dripping wet from the rain.

 

And before I could release my words,

he had a demand for me…

 

I want you to change your last name.

 

The question of "who" was replaced

with "why", as I stood on the sidewalk

underneath the dampened moonlit sky,

now—in severed pieces.