CALL ME BELOVED

What was taken, when the house was razed:
The better parts of my childhood, daydreaming
fantasizing feral, figuring out how to be human
and jumping fences, strolling backyard beaches,
watching storms looming across the bay, those
thunderheads nightmares are born from, awful
and bountiful as the sun that would come after –
hiding places under beds, broom closets, even
behind that hedge where I’d smoke cigarettes –
no more grass, no more tire swing that gave me
my first concussion, no more fence out front
that chipped my eyebrow, no kitchen cupboard
that scarred my nose – I knew which of those stairs
creaked, how to pry the back door’s deadbolt free,
and every single shadow and quiet place knew me –
we would sit together in the silent dark, like praying.