Twon Pearson, Memory Surface, 2021
Graphite and acryla gouache on fabriano
& yes the skeleton of the newt
was found in the dollhouse
after months of looking. Yes,
my sorrow still expands & contracts
like an accordion. Let me be flimsy,
please. Let me wade back through
the flood & empty my pockets.
I’d like to say something
kind about the places
that raised me, not necessarily
the people who raised me
in them. Yes, I am still ashamed
of the pocketed skin of oranges
because of origin. I have been
told I am not gracious
or forgiving & yes St. Augustine
is glassy & thick in yards
of middle-class Texas houses.
Yes, I sat comfortably, cross-
legged, where heads of garter snakes
were severed, where police spoke
to my father often. My mind
is perforated like a derelict screen
door, but mosquitoes can’t get in
if you plug the holes with cotton.
I come from ghost lights
& curses, yes, but let me be the Sugar
Plum Fairy, skin the surface of water.
Let me be sincere—a patron
on her feet in the second
balcony, applauding