Rec Center

We traded cars for steel.

Flint or Birmingham,

slumping shacks or trash-flower projects,

I was loved

hated for saffron skin, corkscrew hair.

Your story? My sister’s father—dark

as you—was my father.

Both still in Flint—you had wed only hers, allowed neither on our walls—you

beguiled the world, you

unblessed mother, wife of imago, daughter of water.

To keep me near, you drove me to the center

and worked while I played.

Tall twins

dropped anchor,

head-to-head Battleship.

As I drifted past, redoubled smiles, echoed hi’s.

No brothers, no father, I nodded, about to hang with the big boys.

When they led

me into the hollow room

and laid me bare, where

were you?

Table cold walls ablaze stomach cornfield

Your face ballooned the door window.

Did you think

swollen hymns could repair?

Did you blacken

memory, avoid its stare? Along the years, beside me

in car or church, where were you?