October 2026 - Vol. 23, Issue 5

At age five, I fell from a suburban maple. I’ve been falling ever since.

Most days I plant my feet on the floor. The dead can no longer do this.

Fear is the sweater I pull on after waking—one my mother knitted as a child.

It is time to let go. I cannot let go.

Insanity is contagious. I am not immune.

My parents’ match was made on the outskirts of heaven. This did not save me.

I was born in the city of Happily-Ever-After—a population long in decline.

Patience is a garden to be cultivated. One must be so inclined.

My ancestors were saved by the blood of the lamb. The slaughter goes on and on.

My family tree is rooted in defective DNA.

I never eat food colored sky-blue. I will not drink anything green.

Poetry is a seaworthy vessel known to save lives.

I’ve danced with Death since birth—a seductive samba with a driving, chaotic beat.

Hyperbole is my default mode of speech.

I cast my lot with the poor. We stand in line behind the meek who wait to inherit the earth.

I avoid wearing white. I do not believe in false innocence.

I try not to lie to those I love. At times I succeed.

Broken shells slice the soles of my feet. In feet, there is minimal blood loss.

I listen to voices calling me, heeding when necessary, ignoring when possible.

Some find me strange. I’m guessing the dead don’t care.

“Autobiography” was previously published in Bryant Literary Review no. 10 (2009).