Dr. Melissa's Blog

We knew that Thursday’s were the best days,
to find essentials, like clothes, blankets and a broken toaster.

At eleven, I had no use for mismatched Tupperware,
worn out triple D bras, vacuums that did not work,
and oddball coffee cups with cliché’s
that read, “Best Dad in the World.”

My Dad had no such mug. He did the thinking,
and thought it was a good idea to put me in the drop box,
head first, because I was small, and could do the reaching
for more stuff.  His plan was to pull me out by my feet
in case of danger, like a cop driving up the alley.

Dad had it all figured out if we got caught.  His story included
good samaritans donating sacks of items, when we were really
sneaking the donations into the back of the Station Wagon.

Except Dad didn’t plan on the cop driving by just as
he stuffed my wiry body into the donation box.
And I didn’t plan on Dad letting go of our plan, or my ankles,
when the cop pulled up to get an even closer look,
the door snapping shut as Dad let go.  I could hear
Dad driving away like a drunken adolescent, while I
hung like a retarded bat, two feet sticking out,
never to retrieve any of his jail worthy prizes.

"It Wasn’t Like in the Movies"

In the Colorado street, calling you,
instead, my brother’s voice on your phone.
The answer given from a diplomat.
“They think there’s been a drowning.”

No.  No. 
Don’t do this to me.
Neighbors heard.  Strangers too,
and helped me into the house.  I forgot
I was in the street.  But I remember
they wouldn’t let me stay there
and die.  I tried so hard.

The day before, when I said goodbye.
it was simple.  You forgot to hug me.
To say I love you.   You sat on the couch,
and just smiled.  I in the doorway,
taking a second look, at the first time
I saw you growing up.

I poured out, all over this road, where
the street wouldn’t let me stand up.
Gravel in fists, didn’t help
to understand the news
you were still lost in the water.