Dating

He asked me once,
"Why are you so crazy?"

"Baby, I'm not crazy."

My eyes are fishbowls with two fish.
They are always trying to eat each other.
When I'm sad, I begin to pack.

"Where are you going?" he asks.
I shrug.
"I'm not crazy."

I'm packing my things now.
Socks.
I wore no socks when I ran away from home.
Humid air dotted my bruised forehead.
Shirt.
My father sent me a plaid tank top before my 7th birthday.
I wore it in the snow, a frozen gibbon, hanging on the black knobs of
grandmother's gate waiting for him
till the day passed.
Shorts
It was winter when my mother packed my things
into a shopping bag and left.
It was still summer in her head. We were still a family then.
She had packed only shorts, 2 pairs of underpants and a t-shirt.
Books
I drew my mother and father's faces over every couple, child voodoo.
Ineffective.

Journal
The pages I tore out are called Dear Mom:

"Dear Mom,
I'm not mad, but
when you come back to get me
will you remember to bring my pants?
And an extra pair of underpants?
I wore this one inside out. Twice.
P.S. Grandma's chicken Ggo Ggo scares me.
She eats her own egg.

Dear Mom,
I'm not sad, but Dad can't make it and
Santa?
Well, I think he may have moved.
Or forgot I moved. I wanted scented erasers and pencils for school.
Never mind about the pants and underpants.
Grandma gave me hers.

Dear Mom,
I'm not worried, but I think I'm being sent to America. Grandma said you
are not my mother.
I told her, 'Nuh uh! She has a scar on her belly. I saw it. It's where I
came from.'
She said, 'That woman had surgery for something else and lied to you.'
She lifted her shirt, showed me her belly.
'See? If I had a scar for each child I had,
wouldn't I have four?'

She scarlessly scarred me for life.

Dear Mom,
The woman I live with now is Dad's wife. America is not bad but cheese
gives me gas.
I eat bananas all day. I was trying to save you one, maybe send one back to
you, if you'll forward me
your new address.

Dear Mom,
The woman, I call her New Mom. But I don't mean it. Because you are not
old; you hate to be called that.

Dear Mom,
I drew you in class today, because I couldn't remember your face. Teacher
Hill got mad. Sent me to the principal's office.
There was trouble at home. I was trouble. I'm watching the mirror like it
is television. New Mom said I was just like you.
My eyes are puffy. My cheeks too. Why do tears and fists puff your face?
I'm pretending I'm a boxer. Dad likes boxing.
It's too bad he missed it.

Dear Mom,
I'm getting good grades now. English is not so hard now. I'm writing your
name over and over in my English notebook.
Large letters look empty as houses.

Dear Mom,
I'm not angry, but
the years build and wind upwards.
A spire to the abandoned cathedral.

There are shells
of bullets or
of sea
I hold in my fist clenched
called memories.

I can either
hold them up to my ear and listen
seashell sounds, calming or

or
bite the bullet and forget.

I'm constantly packing and unpacking
all my belongings
waiting to leave
before being left.

I have my right arm stamped "For You"
my left leg stapled to the next boy I see
I call him NOT DAD.
HE WILL NOT LEAVE ME FOR ANOTHER WOMAN.

I'm not sure if it's the stamp or the way I look at him
whenever he walks out the door that makes him uneasy.

It's just.
He keeps calling me
crazy."