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Literature Text
Ask me how many houses I have lived in:
I don't have enough fingers to show you the answer.
(one)
Surrey, British Columbia.
It is five in the morning,
my mother's contractions are so sudden
she nearly passes out in the shower;
two hours later she holds me in her arms.
My father is asleep somewhere,
his absence tastes like cranberry juice,
bitter, but I've gotten used to it.
(two, three)
The first house I lived in
had walls that changed colour
and texture every few months.
Perhaps this is why I love to travel,
I've been doing so since before I knew the word.
(four, five)
When I have a full hand of houses
I am familiar with lemonade and strangers.
I wear corduroy dresses with giggles
and convince landlords I'm a good girl.
The house we move into is large enough
for me to ride my tricycle indoors
when I'm left with a babysitter named Tracey
who prefers watching television instead of me.
Another couple lives in the basement beneath us,
they wear black leather and bad words.
Sarah, their daughter is one year younger than me
but she knows more than my encyclopedia,
it's from her that I first heard the word sex.
She tells me you have to be completely nude.
The next day my mother
puts my brother and I in the bathtub together.
Because of Sarah I thought I lost my virginity.
(six)
Before I can boast to Sarah
we take a taxi to the ferry terminal
and move to the capital city.
(seven)
By the time I memorize my new postal address
we are packing boxes again. I hate packing tape,
every time it sticks to my fingers
I cry as it rips off my fingerprints.
My thumbs used to be paintings of swirled galaxies,
but now they are blank canvases
and I lost my paintbrushes
when we left the lower mainland.
(eight)
I add the word duplex to my vocabulary.
Beside us lives a woman with two boyfriends,
a Spanish accent and a daughter named Taylen.
She is one year older.
She tells me about fucking.
It's from her that I learn
I did not in fact lose my virginity.
After that we play kick the can for hours
and become best friends.
It's the first house with a home phone
so I call Taylen and we pretend
that we're on separate continents.
A year later she moves away.
I give her my phone number,
she promises to call and we never speak again.
A family with a Pitbull moves in beside us.
This is the first time I know I'm not dog person.
(nine)
In grade three I draw a picture of an Orca
in permanent marker and frame it.
It is the first thing I think will last forever,
but the sun takes the ink away a week later.
(ten,)
My neighbour's son is three years old.
I have been living beside him for six months.
I still don't know his first name
and I'm only guessing his age.
His hair reminds me of ripe lemons.
I used to hate the colour yellow,
but his smile is so hopeful that
I want to tape it to my bathroom mirror
so I can match my reflection to his grin.
I have not smiled like him since the day
I learned that it's wasn't normal for
parents to live in the different houses.
(eleven, twelve,)
My mother tells me to stop slouching,
but years of different suburbs,
forgotten names and lost letters
are stacked up on my spine.
(thirteen, fourteen, fifteen)
I am standing on the corner
of Victoria and Fraserview Drive,
it is the first time I feel I belong somewhere.
Ask me how many houses I've called home:
I am still looking for the answer.
I don't have enough fingers to show you the answer.
(one)
Surrey, British Columbia.
It is five in the morning,
my mother's contractions are so sudden
she nearly passes out in the shower;
two hours later she holds me in her arms.
My father is asleep somewhere,
his absence tastes like cranberry juice,
bitter, but I've gotten used to it.
(two, three)
The first house I lived in
had walls that changed colour
and texture every few months.
Perhaps this is why I love to travel,
I've been doing so since before I knew the word.
(four, five)
When I have a full hand of houses
I am familiar with lemonade and strangers.
I wear corduroy dresses with giggles
and convince landlords I'm a good girl.
The house we move into is large enough
for me to ride my tricycle indoors
when I'm left with a babysitter named Tracey
who prefers watching television instead of me.
Another couple lives in the basement beneath us,
they wear black leather and bad words.
Sarah, their daughter is one year younger than me
but she knows more than my encyclopedia,
it's from her that I first heard the word sex.
She tells me you have to be completely nude.
The next day my mother
puts my brother and I in the bathtub together.
Because of Sarah I thought I lost my virginity.
(six)
Before I can boast to Sarah
we take a taxi to the ferry terminal
and move to the capital city.
(seven)
By the time I memorize my new postal address
we are packing boxes again. I hate packing tape,
every time it sticks to my fingers
I cry as it rips off my fingerprints.
My thumbs used to be paintings of swirled galaxies,
but now they are blank canvases
and I lost my paintbrushes
when we left the lower mainland.
(eight)
I add the word duplex to my vocabulary.
Beside us lives a woman with two boyfriends,
a Spanish accent and a daughter named Taylen.
She is one year older.
She tells me about fucking.
It's from her that I learn
I did not in fact lose my virginity.
After that we play kick the can for hours
and become best friends.
It's the first house with a home phone
so I call Taylen and we pretend
that we're on separate continents.
A year later she moves away.
I give her my phone number,
she promises to call and we never speak again.
A family with a Pitbull moves in beside us.
This is the first time I know I'm not dog person.
(nine)
In grade three I draw a picture of an Orca
in permanent marker and frame it.
It is the first thing I think will last forever,
but the sun takes the ink away a week later.
(ten,)
My neighbour's son is three years old.
I have been living beside him for six months.
I still don't know his first name
and I'm only guessing his age.
His hair reminds me of ripe lemons.
I used to hate the colour yellow,
but his smile is so hopeful that
I want to tape it to my bathroom mirror
so I can match my reflection to his grin.
I have not smiled like him since the day
I learned that it's wasn't normal for
parents to live in the different houses.
(eleven, twelve,)
My mother tells me to stop slouching,
but years of different suburbs,
forgotten names and lost letters
are stacked up on my spine.
(thirteen, fourteen, fifteen)
I am standing on the corner
of Victoria and Fraserview Drive,
it is the first time I feel I belong somewhere.
Ask me how many houses I've called home:
I am still looking for the answer.
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And a heartless attitude
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Comments49
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There's much to relate to for many people in this piece, I would think. I have moved house repeatedly ever since I started university and all of the apartments have left odd fragments of memories. I like the vivid observations turning into personal narrative symbols in this poem. It's full of evocative images, but for some reason I liked the part with the duct tape ripping off the fingerprint-galaxies.