2015

everyone keeps a childhood home under their tongue
but i either have none or many. my grandparents house

(the one that outlived a fire but later lost a tree tired
of enduring and eventually my grandmother also tired of enduring

the backlash of her own blood) resonates. the grandfather
clock had more authority on getting me to bed than my grandfather:

stalling, i was always stalling from sleep except when i was awoken
for my brothers birth or to go to camp with a tucked-away romance novel–

laughing at steamy nipples written on a page–
i lived in another state but brought my first period with me,

the need to keep parts of yourself in one place.

i think it was here i learned the art of writing, not the pen
to paper word writing but the noticing of things, the intricacies

of the grout in the guest shower i remember better than years
of my life. this house served me stencils, drawing my future memories

surrounded by mid century wallpaper hosting holidays, unaware
these brassy thoughts belong to another timeline where i stay the course

beside who i thought i would be. i was not there when she died
but i was drunkenly glad there was no funeral–a notion im tired of enduring,

a decade spent stalling, left in another place.

Amanda Nicole Corbin has had her short form prose published in a variety of magazines and journals including Thrice Fiction, Nano Fiction, the Notre Dame Review, and more. She currently lives in Columbus, Ohio and spends her time writing, drawing, and playing Magic the Gathering.