one of the many places

The who-I-am, when someone might ask,
is ten. Wears bandages on both
knees, blue glasses — constantly pushed
up. Up. White socks, turned down three
times, dirty in the heels. Gritty like my teeth.
Running so hard I could taste metal on
the back of my tongue. Smiling in the desert
has its hazards: squints turn to wrinkles
in 40-odd-years. Loving lizards, turquoise
stoves & sinks, wondering if volleyball &
rope-climbing will ever end. Long
jumps in thin canvas shoes and sprints will cream
knees. But Kennedy signed the form, so proud.
Wandering over a desert, jumping
cactus, bare-back horse rides, lunches
lost in dirty forts. Wind storms that shake
our trailer and make everyone glad
for underpinnings. Thin painted plywood
a front for permanence that’s dirt poor.
Peach tree whose fruit I can’t remember.
There were two versions to this story.
The one I told myself, when I wasn’t
proud and the one I told every other time.
I lived in a pink trailer. But where the
tin foil was supposed to trail only
honeysuckle scenting early morning,
late night is when it cooled down.

* * *

Where do you come from? This is one place.

From another version in December 2006 for Poetry Thursday:

When she was small she played in sand and rocks,
With broken stick etched roads that a flat stone had
Graded. Knobby knees dimpled with gravel, a brush of
Hand, maybe twice, moved and shoed dust and
Dirt. Grey clay swirled in hot arid air while grit settled
Brown around once white folds gathered at her heels.

In those days her socks were always white from the package,
White from bleached laundry hanging on a wire in the sun.
Brown and crusty laying on the floor near the door, shaken
Outside before making their way back in. Something like the
Gritty smile of a kid who plays with lizards in the desert. Gravel
Streets meant bandages were always at home on those knees.

* * *

Might have to recombine these two in revision.

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