A Cheap WIsh

Recreating pubescent approaches to each cautious,
inexperienced footstep I once took miscarries in
replication:
I will never embark on another Egg
Drop soup, father-daughter date night while
mother is away.
There’s no need to hide razors in
the daylight of sixth grade anymore, all to
carelessly knick my knees shaving in the dark
stillness of early mornings.
Greeting Mr. Shannon with a Merry Christmas
from across the hopscotch encrusted pavement
died along with him.
Running to mother after school let out on
May 18, 1999 to tear into the childproof-
like plastic casing before savoring the newest
tracks from the boys of Backstreet, can’t make
for quite the love-struck ride home.
My mother’s mother can’t be conned for cash and a
ride to the mall while my soon-to-be dissociated paternities
run away to Cancun to rekindle what was never there.
Cinnamon smelling sparkling lip-gloss and a pair of Air
Jordans later; I will still be unpopular.

The portraits of memories past, the ones that Picasso
paints each time my lashes meet one another, belonging
to the unripe youth I once was, can never be duplicated, though the
weeping ensnared by the windowpane closing off my mortal
atmosphere is often imitated.

My father takes no one other than his wife
on dates while my shins still tussle with bleeding.
My mother is away for good, while Mr. Shannon and
her mother are off waltzing in heaven. The music lacks
the aura it once imparted, as my lip-gloss has dried out and
the Goodwill representative found my Jordans a home
where finding popularity is less important than keeping
your feet warm.

Transcripts are made, actions turn into past decisions, and weeks
turn into years. I survived the decade tormented by teenage
anguish only to drive blindfolded into the period of adulthood
aches.
One moment is all I ask of a wish that cannot be bought. The
cheapest wish of them all.