What was Wrong with Me
At nine I was let loose—
the parks, parking lots,
and dried riverbed.
The adults stayed away.
This world shows you its cards—the creeps
got too close, and the bullies never
asked questions before
chasing me. I found refuge
among the homeless who scared them
with dull knives or empty bottles.
I stole from chain stores
because the staff knew their faces,
but mine was still taking shape.
I had little space on me
so they got little food
but it was hardy and I knew
how to make it last,
how a priest breaks sacramental bread.
Meanwhile, my father
was diagnosed with cancer and my rich uncle
drank. I thought—these people
under the bridge
really know how to live.
I would take a handful
of dirt from under their toes
and sprint back home,
tuck it under my parents' pillows
until I was grounded.
Everyone else is dying.
Look at them die.
Brandon Shane is a poet and horticulturist, born in Yokosuka, Japan. You can read his work in Rattle, trampset, VariantLit, The Chiron Review, Stone Circle Review, and IceFloe Press, among others. He graduated from Cal State Long Beach with a degree in English.
Currently Reading:
Red Comet by Heather Clark
The Devil All the Time by Donald Ray Pollock
For More About the Author:
Instagram: @brandonsahne