Autobiographical Memories by Camden Jones
standing in my castle/a skate park
defending it from usurpers/my siblings
wielding my sword/a stick
to honor my position as king / a child.
I climb down a ladder from the castle walls/I slide down the ramp
and received an arrow would to the leg/a friction burn:
everyone has a fantasy,
but armor isn’t foolproof
and even kings get hurt in their own castle.
silver fin flashed in the setting sun,
shimmer blue-green ocean,
cliffs walls gilded with golden hand.
Boat spun calm in soft eddies
where the beast and I battled for mastery/dominance.
He defends his scales with strength,
endurance, a will to survive.
My weapons are a pole, a net,
a pat on the back by Grandpa.
birds laughing at the sunrise:
leavings chuckling with their neighbors,
giggling to the wind:
clouds torn by proud thunder and reckless lightning:
bacon, juice, syrup, family:
friends laughing in the dark.
my brother because he threw my book
chips of sunlight on the polished
track of a spinning record.
Drifting tunes tumble through
the room, air filled with tumultuous
waves, eye drawn to each suspended speck.
A hand grabs mine.
she was young,
just a child,
and I was pallbearer.
Her seat-belt wasn’t buckled.
My hands are still stained
with the odor of formaldehyde
and brass handles
and forgotten laughter.