When most children are palm wet with excitement at penning their own name and learning to corral their jerky little movements into BIG BLOCK LETTERS – I really hated it.
Hello, have a piece of me.
It seemed to say.
I hate personalizing things. I break into a cold sweat at personal gifts. I’m not an ancient egyptian reborn, I assure you, but for awhile I did not think I could handle the fingers and toes of my well intentioned friends.
I left most of my journals unsigned, more than a fair lot of my poems untitled, and arguably all of them hidden for the duration of the rash that came after creation. I made and then itched and was absolutely not well enough to deal with the repercussions to my big ol’ mouth.
I can tell you one thing, writing the poem about the bloodied all-seeing Jesus on the cross who is severely disappointed in you and YOU and YOU was something my sixth grade teacher caught the rash on. Maybe it was about the gore. Or even the tender care given to the way gore-flesh flutters in a healthy downward stream of blood like watercress. Either way, it was bad news.