I was premature. Born yellowish,
butterfly kicking forward, already
homesick when they snapped the cord.
They placed me in the sun to bake
beneath the maples on their new porch
where I could speak to the trees with cries
and hear myself attempt the forest sounds.
My first language: shhhhh-ahhh-shhheeee.
Wind teaching a child to listen
to suburban alienation.
Each caterpillar inching on my skin
was a friend to gather, greet;
each cardinal was a scarlet blur
of echoing skylight, calling me back
from the harsh kick of a car engine.
My ears were tuned to the patter of rain
on the porch boards, lullabies from my grandma.
She and I sang to hummingbird whirs,
to the swish of a grey-squirrel tail.
We were small together in this home place,
content with our brief niche of time.
“The Porch” was previously published in Banshee.
About Christine Kelley
