In autumn we looked for deer skulls
with our palms outstretched,
thinking that if we were deer
we’d long for children to collect
fragments of our bodies in armfuls -
wrap them up like sea glass,
carry them home in wheelbarrows -
we’d long to be treasured like that.

And if I pull back the carpet in my
grandmother’s sitting room,
I’m there, hazelnut November, 2004,  
teaching waves of broken light
how to race through the edges of
her picture frames, waiting for
their recompense, for them to
teach me about love, about family.

I should’ve warned my eight-year-old self,
told her not to trust the picture frames
said, "don’t let them in,
close your hand, you idiot." 
they’ll repurpose those pushover bones,
they’ll terrorize that incinerator heart,
into inferiorities, into submission, 
they’ll snap that hand in two.

I should’ve taught my eight-year-old self
that the thing about love is:
it’s not stitched into my grandmother’s carpet
with the light and the hazelnut, because
that autumn, that day, when my uncle
grabbed my twig and elastic wrist
with his oak and copper fist,
I’d never felt less like family.

But I should’ve cautioned my eight-year-old self,
before that autumn, that day with the deer skulls, said
"stop, don’t be so goddamn  foolish,
you’re embarrassing yourself",
because there’s no earthly treasure,
no unconditional fondness,
that can absolve the sin of offering up
those open palms, telling that unforgiving earth
"take what you need, and be ruthless."