I Show Up Twelve Years Late For Curfew
       

I appear cold, muddy, unstable in the foyer.
My parents are polite, but stiff, like a French host family.

They have new children, who have new toys
which make intergalactic noises in the night.

Their eyes are brown with gold flecks, not like mine.

They either can't remember things or don't care
that I hate tomatoes. Over dinner, my mother asks
my middle name. When I tell her, she says "oh, yes?"

Trying to feel relevant now is a bit like
touching my own mouth shot full of anesthetic,
or forming the word "bouche" while drunk.

I survey the unnatural ocean of their new blue carpet
and try not to chew like a starving person.

This is my family, these people so inept at things like
memory and monopoly, I feel like a trickster god
hiding my funny-money under the board.

Copyright © 2009 Karyna McGlynn All rights reserved
from I Have to Go Back to 1994 and Kill a Girl
Sarabande Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission