I didn't write about my experience
growing up as an African American
in a neighborhood that is poor
by literary standards.
I didn't write about the holocaust
and face cracked ancestors
who managed a modicum
of dignity regardless.
I didn't write about religious
disconnects between myself
and the members of generations
I held in reverence.
I didn't write about the street
life in the early morning hours
that bookend an edgy existence
worthy of photography projects.
I didn't write about strained relationships
threatening to permanently divorce
me from ignorant parentage
that kept trying.
I didn't write about the swoon
of love in the months bridging
spring and summer
and torrents of personal growth.
I didn't write about history
resurrected and relived daily
like wounds both painful
and pleasantly familiar.
I didn't write about the promise
of self esteem bolstered
and at once deflated
in sidelong, womanizing, glances.
I didn't write about fields of flowers
and homosexuality and
the parallels between
food and one night stands.
I wrote about the fragility of a pane of
bloodshot sky resting on the fingertips of trees
on a Thursday afternoon.
An honorable mention.
