Rumpus Original Poetry: Two Poems by J Brooke
I Drew a House
I drew a house
I drew a house with a tire swing
I drew a house with a tire swing and deep green grass
I drew a house with a tire swing and deep green grass and a little pond
with a small raft afloat in it
and a mast in the center of it
with a blue bandana flag tied on
with sailor’s knots
I drew a house
I drew a house with a tire swing
I drew a house with a tire swing and deep green grass
I drew a house with a tire swing and deep green grass and a little pond
with sailor’s knots I had learned from the encyclopedia Britannica
in my brother’s room
that I wasn’t allowed to touch
without permission from my brother
I drew a house
I drew a house with a tire swing
I drew a house with a tire swing and deep green grass
I drew a house with a tire swing and deep green grass and a little pond
without permission from my brother which I couldn’t get
because he was away at summer camp for eight weeks
or home late every afternoon after school
because he was busy with older boy things and I was not
I drew a house
I drew a house with a tire swing
I drew a house with a tire swing and deep green grass
I drew a house with a tire swing and deep green grass and a little pond
because he was busy with older boy things and I was not
and there were no cell phones back then so I could never reach him
when I wanted to which was most of the time
so I tiptoed into his room
and always took one of the many volumes of his encyclopedia
I drew a house
I drew a house with a tire swing
I drew a house with a tire swing and deep green grass
I drew a house with a tire swing and deep green grass and a little pond
and always took one of the many volumes of his encyclopedia
and hid it under my shirt
and raced back to my bedroom, locking the door behind me
and crawling beneath my bed to read things with a flashlight
I drew a house
I drew a house with a tire swing
I drew a house with a tire swing and deep green grass
I drew a house with a tire swing and deep green grass and a little pond
and crawling beneath my bed to read things with a flashlight
that would make me wish I could learn things
from someone besides myself
who maybe had a house with a tire swing
and deep green grass
and a little pond
with a small raft afloat in it
and a mast in the center of it
with a blue bandana flag
tied on with sailor’s knots.
T
Maria hates olives. Jason vaunts
a signature cocktail, though never
grilled a portobello. Oral allergy
syndrome is why Elizabeth eschews
raw apples.
So many things I don’t know
about my friends until
I do. Until I see them
reveal something miniscule
they suppose of course,
and it’s not. Like
with Jason, his darkness
is he stole something
big. I know, Jason
never told Maria even
about being a thief,
and they’ve been married
over two decades. Only
I was told
which makes me
feel like he knew
I’d love him no matter
what, and even if I didn’t
feel that way before he told
me about his theft, I felt so
protective of him after
he trusted me
I can never think
his signature cocktail makes him
a jerk—I know it’s just something
he creates to cover
up that part of him he believes is a jerk,
the part
that’s a thief even
though he only acted on it once.
I carry
around stuff like that
all the time–Like the way
I think of myself as a murderer even
though I’ve done it literally–
never. But so many times I dream
I’m disposing of body parts, stuffing
an arm into a cereal box, a leg
into a garbage bag and hauling them around
to different garbage dumps, recycling
type places, deserted landfills
and murky swamps. I know…
you suppose
I get ideas like this watching TV
shows like Dexter but I don’t
watch those types
of things, instead I watch sweet funny
fluff lighthearted romps with precocious kids–I’ve been
watching those shows my whole life wanting
willing myself into ping-pong basements
swing-set backyards uncomplicated
Brady Bunch houses I mean,
so what
life growing up approximated
The Sopranos?
It’s
like being double-jointed, in that,
sure, you have something about you
different from most people but who really cares,
like truly
gives a damn because in the end it’s just something
you schlepp around with
you like the rest of your shit.
It’s how I feel
some days about being
T
(as in the last letter in LGBT), and not telling
my friends who all still think I’m the first
letter in LGBT. There are days the difference
as significant
as the difference
between being a murderer
and just dreaming
about murdering. But there are plenty
of other days I think
it’s as insignificant
as why my friend Elizabeth doesn’t eat apples–meaning
obscure medical diagnosis aside, isn’t it absolutely
enough to just know not to offer her an apple?
***
Author photo courtesy of author