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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “Spartacus” Down in the Dirt, v178 (the December 2020 Issue) Order the paperback book:

Order this writing that appears in the one-of-a-kind anthology Late Frost the Down in the Dirt Sept.-Dec. 2020 issues collection book		get the 420 page Sept.-Dec. 2020 Down in the Dirt 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

The Places We Inhabit

Yvonne Nguyen

i.
Wild grass grows golden, tall enough that
I cannot find my own feet in front of me.
Sometimes I lay down,
invisible in the dead forest of my own front yard, thinking
that as long as no one mowed the lawn, no one
would find me here. My eyes trace the curved line
that the drooping gutter makes and I cannot
help but smile back at this house. This house
that is faltering from the unforgiving sway of
time collects my carelessness on its walls in the form of
peeling wallpaper, so now the still flowers curve toward me
like real flowers do at the end of spring.
My home is more like a collage of broken pieces,
unaware of their own misfortune.

ii.
I cannot imagine sleeping in a different bed. Because at least
when I wake up with my skin burning,
I do not cry out,
I know the bed bugs have found me.

iii.
My body is the same
as a childhood home with splintered floorboards.
I am lucky enough to
recognize my traumas when they come around again.
So when I wake up with a racing heartbeat
and a pair of lungs that heave
and a body that is sticky
with the heat of remembering too well,
I’ll know which memory has me by the throat.

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