by Joris Soeding

after seventeen months I am frizzling
these rooms of tying my first shoelace
riding the blue bike with a shove from Papa on this strangerless street
where I pretended to be He-Man
announcing to each neighbor in a sleeveless undershirt and plastic, silver sword
more than once a Native-American on Halloween
wanting to be part of a tribe for a long time
hours in the tree house, practicing basketball, swimming with GI Joes and Mami
whiffle ball with Tim next door, the roof being a homerun
at the table outside with Omi and Oma summer after summer
twenty-five years
too difficult to turn these rooms over
close the door, leave this home, the woods, street, quietly and quickly

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