Poem by Lillian Anderson

Art by Lillian Anderson

the sloughing off of many layers,
degrading rapid

against the blustering, 
grinding down
to nub

walking down the same street,
recognizing vague forms,
seeing no similarity.

every person emerges from their hole,
claws out a chunk,
hefty in their hands,
real meaty earth piece.
soon dissipating between fingers,
sliding past grasp,
back to dust,
for someone else to scoop up

the permanence lasting only one blink.

 child memories unformed, 
tangled masses of sun-blinded peaky awarenesses 
gnarled together within the roots of old trees.

rubbing these wounds raw,
digging into scarred tissue
burrowing incessant
clinging, clawing for old crumbs of belonging
trees continue growing, 
footsteps worn away.

a holy perfect place only capable of 
being built deep within the butter-soft infant mind,
insane sense of belonging, rose-colored-glasses glued to my face.

when we stop inhabiting our place,
does it remain at all?   
new memories formed by its next inhabitants create a different home entirely,
etch-a-sketch violently shaken clean,
the selfishness to crave one home
ownership
forever, hatefully glaring at moving trucks,
digging in my heels,
screaming against the current
blast-crater, ripped wide and gaping, 
opening, closing, reopening.