Pentimento (1)

First in a sequence of three poems with the same title.

What can be stated: I vividly recall the first time I flew.
The plane tipped up backward, and my chair wanted to break free
from its boltings and fall into the tail. I thought I wouldn’t survive
until we leveled out. I was six; they gave me a plastic pilot’s badge
with an adhesive back to stick on my chest. I loved it, still have it.

This is all true except for the last part; I lost it soon afterward.
Now let’s say the Scheißhund we adopted didn’t bite me five times
in the two years we teens had him before we got rid of the terrier.
Let’s say I was notified of the pending adoption, or even consulted
in choosing our pet. Or maybe we gave him up the first time
he bit me. Let’s lie, and say I wasn’t the runt of my own litter.

After the accident I wore a cherry-red arm-cast for three months.
It stunk to high heaven. Everyone signed it. This isn’t real,
but anything can happen when you fictionalize your narrative.
The scar on my arm now has a romantic excuse.
I no longer spent months in a children’s halfway house.
Grape cough syrup’s a favorite.   What’s left unsaid:

All of my prized possessions from childhood are now gone.

What can be stated: Passing the cemetery, my eye caught a flicker:
a frumpy young woman and a man with gelled hair, exiting the gate
long after nightfall. Their glances turned my way and fell into disgust.
I hadn’t done anything, but I was grown up and used to such reactions
by then. They thought me offensive, I thought them more so.

What is also true: My younger sisters were reckoned more trust-
worthy than I was. They were born liars, but they didn’t embarrass
our mother in public. Let’s say I was recalcitrant and prone
to outbursts. Hyperactive and prone to fistfights. Too smart for my
own good. My first word was ‘No’. It’s only my truth against theirs.
Let’s lie, and say I’ve forgotten the sins etched in my back. Let’s lie:

After the plane crashed I went into foster care, bouncing from home
to ramshackle home. I had no name, was a face on the news.
No relatives wanted to take me in. It isn’t true, but I’m weaving
a parable. A star fell to Earth and granted me oblivion.
The knife split my skin the night of my Attempt.
A butterfly once landed on the scab of my knuckle.

What is unsaid: My mother’s fresh kindnesses are too little, too late.

Author's Note

Published by Eunoia Review, Jan. 2026:
https://eunoiareview.wordpress.com/2026/01/23/pentimento-1/