"letter to my 9 yr old self" by Amy Rose Lafty
*CW: alcohol, alcoholism
You are stuck in the storm:
gray winds billowing, ivy
walls splitting, blue
mother weeping. Even the trees
are hailing down
taxicabs. These are familiar
rains, and you are sick
of taking shelter. You don’t need
to empty your father’s new case
of Miller Lite down the drain again-
he will only rally like a herd
of turtles, slow to know he’s drowning
you. He is without
peripheral vision, can’t see the way
you’re marked for the sewers
in a boat made of construction
paper. Doesn’t know he’s leaving you
with a box of dulled crayons and a rainbow
of abandonment. Doesn’t know he drank
your swim lessons away. Sent you
into a spiral with Scylla to your left
and Charybdis to your right.
I know the rain holds
its breath sometimes, stops long
enough for your mother to sleep,
for your father to pick up
a night shift, for you to set a tea
party for one. But it’s never long
before the sky turns nimbus
and you are again drenched
in a life built upon empty
beer cans and broken umbrellas.
And I know you’re tired
of promises signed in
flotsam, but I can
tell you this-
one day you will emerge
with scales you never knew
you had. You will drown
self-doubt in a chest
labeled “old treasures.”
I will place five-pointed
fish in your palms and
prove to you that even stars
can survive in water.
Amy Rose Lafty is a poet, momma, former educator, and cookie maker. She earned her Master of Arts from The Bread Loaf School of English and lives in Delaware County with her husband and two wildly energetic children. Find her @arlpoetry on Instagram.
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