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haunting (a poem in six parts)

i. the family photo albums

have you haunted photo albums before? been the blurry phantom in the background? a sorrowful spectre?

i was taught by wooden spoon that children were seen & not heard; my pale flesh must’ve been reminder that i was burden & beast all in one.

taught to be ghost long before i could wrap my own hands around my throat— spoke to spirits long before i realized i was just as dead as they were.

ii. wrong kind of indian

i sometimes dream of curried goat & the cast iron flat pan cynthia would use to fry roti. she would wet the bottom of a red enamel mug to spread oil before frying (one time she laughed when i asked if i could flip the roti. she laughed even harder when i asked for the recipe. said i was the wrong kind of indian for roti. said i was the wrong kind of brown, too white for my own. said i had a cleaner getaway than my cousins).

i was too young to understand.

my fingers were always yellow after my nails a deep hue of spice. after peter died, she cooked less.

told me feed myself, that now was a good time to learn.

iii. the family photo albums 2

one year, i came across a family album: couldn’t find a smaller version of myself couldn’t find a fuller smile of myself couldn’t find anything but photos of a woman i called cynthia, a dead man & their daughter. i saw vacations in disneyland, mexico & london (ones i was always kept from)

iv. thieving intentions

remember how she told me not to ever call her momma, grandma or auntie. when she felt generous or i cried too much: she’d chuckle and ask if i needed some of her good old TLC (t e n d e r l o v i n ’ c a r e).

sometimes if i plucked enough slugs

from the strawberry patches,

or gardened enough,

especially after peter died,

she’d let me rest my head

on her chest. The sound of her

breathing felt like i was stealing

s o m e t h i n g

not for me.

v. locks, stopping & libraries

i stopped reaching out when she locked the door to my bedroom, got used to wet pillows from crying, stopped trying to impress her, stopped doing homework stopped laughing stopped painting & drawing stopped writing & started reading, ran away to the library made sanctuary between shelves & book covers learned to stop asking

vi. the cost of a photograph

one christmas after living in her home for near a decade during a large dinner with her extended relatives:

someone called for a family photo.

i went to take my place in it she said this one’s for family— swatting my sister & me away. the camera caught the blur of my back. it is the only family photo i am in.

have you haunted photo albums before?