The House You Carry Inside You
Hundreds of people have sung to swing low,
sweet chariot, coming, carry us home.
Home is inside me, blue, one-way street,
cherry tree, watching, crows by the creek.
I kissed my first man there, was I alive, then?
Or roller skating, back and forth, or busting my shin?
Or falling through the floorboards, fiery temper
stopped short, thank God it was summer,
said Mom, boiler bleed and not burn, silly girl, now,
I missed it, by feeling so low,
will I change it all up, now, see how I got it wrong?
See, I carried it inside me, and its memory is long
Amy Alexander lives, writes and home schools in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, where she can often be found knitting while waiting for her kids to finish their various practices. Her work has appeared most recently in The Coil, Anti-Heroin Chic, Cease, Cows and Mojave Heart Review. Though she was born and raised in Colorado, she has spent most of her adult life in the South, and is most grateful to be included in the company of tough-as-nails, tell-it-like-it-is Southern women. Follow her on Twitter @iriemom.