Wednesday, August 3, 2016

"The Fall of Adam" by Anne Carly Abad, Frequent Contributor


The Fall of Adam
Anne Carly Abad

At the station,
I press my things to my chest
amid the sweaty mass of bodies.
So many vendors today,
prodding their wares—
electric mosquito swatters
buzzing
at each hopeful prod.

We’re always warned
against the snatchers,
but caution is often
taken too late—
that man running ahead
has all my things
and I’m on the ground.

An odd time to remember
a day in my childhood
season of garden parties
and the buzzing
electric mosquito swatter
I wielded like a sword
delivering the bugs
to their blue demise.
I still hate the cousin
who snatched my toy away
only to beat me up
when I fought back...

Father was looking.
He always seemed know
when to grip my shoulder,
“Men shouldn’t cry over little things.”

But everything is gone
and I’m not in the garden.
The vendors continue to prod their wares.
No one tells me not to cry.

Poet's Notes:  Losing something feels a lot like falling down. It's like a pit in your stomach opens up and you're catching your breath to break the fall. I often lose things and I don't know whether, out of my carelessness, I just left the item somewhere or it's been taken from me. I've lost a bracelet, a ring, a cell phone--all of them with pieces of myself in them--the moment I graduated with awards, the birthday spent with the man I'd later spend the rest of my life with... I often wonder if there is a meaning to loss, if God has something better in store. But such thoughts grant no comfort because at the end of the day, the items are gone and all I can do is remember how I once had them. The same way moments cannot be repeated, they can never be replaced.

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