In Which The Poet Remembers His Childhood

I.
The one that operates death
stacks me in LEGO bricks
until I’m a pirate ship.

II.
Everything smells like aloe vera
and has the excitement of the first spring
of an unhooked bra, the wind repeating
everything like it birthed
a new set of teeth.

III.
There are shards stabbing
my feet, eyelashes mast
catching all vision at my back.
There’s an ebb, to move
away from the unseen.

IV.
Can we even talk about LEGOs yet?
Have they reached the point
of archeological magnificence
since their grand roller coasters
burst from California’s knee?

V.
What bruise will leave
a mystery this poem
can discard?

-C.S. Henderson