Mom grips my hand to stop me falling into ditches of frail leaf ferns curled green against black soil seeped with rain currents that feed foxglove and deadly nightshade flowers. Her anxious words warn of poison—she’s convinced anticipation freezes budding threats so they’ll fall and perish drowned in soaking mulch. Sweet-herb vapors connect our bodies with a constant watch for future stress.
A skinny teenager towering over boys, I walk through rain puddles mottled with gasoline swirls to the dance. My socks are conduits for acrid work smells that pollute the air and establish barriers to dancing with the girls. I’m embarrassed to sway with them in front of the boys, watching from shadows away from streams of regulation lights. Their beams probe female appeal through other’s eyes.
Memory trenches,
pipelines dug through the decades,
feed into my life.
INSTANT NOODLES 