A Reckless Nature

for what’s left of that girl in me

There are no photos of my wounds
after running headlong into roses,
no photos of my father ripping out
every last thorn, years before paving over
our yard of dead grass and hardpan.

I’d sit behind the garage, cutting
earthworms in two. When the squirming
stopped, I’d toss the limp ruddy tubes
on my heap of gray curls. Like a mad doctor,
I was undeterred. But the halves never lived.

I once splashed poison ivy with Kool-Aid,
tempting insects to eat the leaves of three.
This plan would keep my schoolmates safe,
I thought, giving it to the count of now,
before destroying the plant by hand.

Weeks went by covered in amber crust.
The hot weather came, and I took
my own measure of soon, diving into
the local pool, chlorine stinging
the raw, new skin beneath.

I collected rocks in boxes, labeled:
- mica (peeling like a sunburn)    
- pyrite (for April fools)
- soapstone (barely lathered)  
and was always hunting for more. 

At Ruggles’ Mine, Don’t run! chimed
against the pit’s steep sides, as I skidded
down over loose stones to a stop.
My brother was crying because I died.
And, you know, I wondered too.

Back in the motel room, my mother
tweezed rocks from skin pockets,
warning me away from the pool in vain.
We both knew I’d dive right back in,
blistering the air with my screams.