“D” is for Dysfunctional
Contributor
Written by
Ericka Clay
December 2010
Contributor
Written by
Ericka Clay
December 2010

I could hear her spelling underneath her breath,
letters strung into words, partial words,
trying to make sense of her sixth grade reader.
This is how it is to have something wrong
in your brain, a literal writer’s block
where the neurons can’t carry out
their simple function, and make you functional,
make you like everyone else. We’re downstairs,
in the finished basement, I’m on the couch, she
on the floor and in between each baby breath
she speaks a language foreign to her ears.
“How do you spell…?” she asks filling in
letters, piece by piece till the puzzle fits.
I lie sometimes, tell her I don’t know how to spell
“bicycle” because I’m trying to listen to your parents
fighting and she’s frustrating me. I’m like my mother.
I listen to things I’m not supposed to listen to
then talk about them later, usually with my mother.
Your father’s threatening divorce. The nasty
“D” word but your mother knows better. She says
“You don’t mean that” because he probably doesn’t
but I think deep down somewhere he does.
I hear one plate, two plates, three plates, four
go crashing, breaking into a million puzzle pieces
your sister would take forever to piece back together.
If they could see her downstairs, frustrated
with “financial,” would they think to sweep
the pieces up one by one, count them,
number them up to a million,
and assess their worth, if only
to reason them worthless
as blessings.

 

Copyright © 2010 Ericka Clay

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