No. No. Why are you talking like that?
My childhood wasn’t a boring one. It had
animals, still alive in my memories, in perfect order.
Not like a pile of groceries fallen from a torn bag.
Upper left, there are feisty, fiery scorpions moving
their large pincers and long tails in the kitchen
that smelled of burnt wood, oil and fear. They
say you have to kill to protect who you love.
Just below them is a huge frog sitting on another,
the beast with two backs, in blue grass. There
my childhood still sprouts and shouts and swims
in a way I often envy. My childhood wasn’t bland.
You hear me. Upper right, there’s the cute koi I
stole from my neighbour’s pond and ran away
within my pocket on hearing him open his gate.
It says you have to reclaim what’s yours.
Just below it is a chubby white-bellied cat
with a peculiar penchant for slouching against steps,
like Istanbul’s Tombili. She spent more than seven lives
with me. She could mimic my drunk grandfather.
Neatly pepper the image with birds and butterflies,
the red of blood. Chasing and catching them
to smell freedom made me more alive than remorseful.
You hear me; my childhood wasn’t that flat.
Everything overlaps a peacock spreading
its patterned plumage under a mawkish, dripping
rainbow. It’s the creature I value the least. I hate vanity,
especially yours. Your money talks too much, way too much.
BIOGRAPHY:
Amit Parmessur, poet and tutor, spent his early adolescence hating poetry. Now, he loves to pick off past experiences, turn them over in the light and write about them. His poetry has appeared in over 165 magazines, namely WINK, The Rye Whiskey Review, Night Garden Journal, Hobo Camp Review, Ann Arbor Review and Ethos Literary Journal. He is a two-time Pushcart Prize and two-time Best of the Web nominee.