section eight

i come from the broken

playground littered with dented coke-can

crack pipes, bullet shells, and bottle shards

that scarred my arches;

from my mother’s squeaky, yellow

rubber gloves, and the burnt-grease smell

of my dad’s mushy fried chicken.

i belong to my father’s heavy leather belt,

my girlfriend’s well-oiled windows

and foot-long bricks of  blank-

label cheese that sweated orange.

i come from crowding

with other families around

a boxy, aluminum community

mailbox the first of every month, my mom’s sweet,

cucumber-scented face cream that left lips oily,

and, “i’m so proud of you, son,”

though i am nothing to be proud of.