if my name was hazelwood

i remember being a little girl (the weather was i don't know maybe nice i was with my brothers) we were at the house trailer my mom grew up in the country of ohio state (red and gray buckeye state) there was a school bus renovated yellow and black like a bumble bee and there were candy bars in the fridge and we loved our mom's sister's husband cause he was a welder and not dad (i didn't know once uncle drank my mom) he hated our uncle (but mom stayed inside where it was so dark we played outside) i knew uncle looked so old because he smelled different (my mom was older than she looked)

i remember the braided trees around grandma's white house (they were indian huts and towers for princesses—not in distress—and home for ewoks) i would desert the boys in the fruit-papered kitchen and eat with the grown-ups trying to be smart for my dad and me too (think think think) they were so old and intelligent spouting noise on religion and politics while i colored stories on my metal tray images of childhood fantasies near strawberry shortcake (my brothers wanted me to play g.i. joe with them but i couldn't make gun sounds)

there were girls on my mom's side but i wasn't pretty (i wore my hair in a ponytail every day i could climb trees) they weren't smart i heard my dad act but they were mom so i wanted the white-trash trailer house

fireworks were my favorite holiday cause i wore all red, white, and blue ribbons in my didn't want curly hair and sang america and watched the candy parade past grandma's white house (the sirens hurt my ears) i got to play with sparklers like a welsh fairie and aaaaahhhhh at the brilliance exploding on the dark curtain hanging up

it was dusk on my childhood but i was already old (writing stories with my barbie dolls) and the hazelwoods multiplied and the glovers retired into their theory-lives and i grew to love my curly hair and blue eyes (my brothers have pretty eyes too) i didn't know but i remember now i am both and neither the same and different i am simply me