Eden

People with fond memories of their hometowns
are a mystery to me. Where I grew up
we loved knives and killed frogs
We salvaged and repaired a small boat

then took to it with axes, sending it back
to the bottom of the same river
This was before we knew anything about love
In a painting we’d be naked, knee deep in water

or standing on the banks, a mirror image of beauty
It was our mothers who called us home
blood still under our nails
At dinner we’d lick our fingers clean

At dusk the fish and frogs would cool with the river
and even we, murderers of the world
with small pruned hands, would find sleep
and now we can never leave

Photo used under CC.