“Firebird” by Anja Boelter

I drop Audre Lorde’s poetry collection

Which has been from the library

Three times    renewed

Onto my face, already half asleep

The smell of the page taking me away

To bedtimes old and    blue

When my father would read to me

Exhausted and spent

Dropping the cover through his

Paint-crusted fingernails

He’d yell at me    as I shook

Him awake, and then neither

Of us would be tired anymore

He’d sigh and keep reading

A man with little    rest

Overworked and criminally underpaid

Driving us a half hour to a school

Mom approved from her sparse

Psychward room devoid of    shoe laces

He ran himself dry like the cars

He painted with firebirds on the hoods

Burning out    when his heart gave way

And collapsing on the bathroom floor

It all follows me now, with chest pain

I don’t have the money    to address

Now I don’t know how he’d feel

About me reading Audre Lorde

  Or staying up past midnight

Especially considering

I have no child    to read to

No reason to stay awake other than

The pencil now in hand

And the lingering scent of the pages

That fell    onto my face

Anja was born and raised in Auburn Hills, previously Auburn Heights, previously Pontiac Township. Their father's roots in this city reach back to the late 19th century when their ancestors moved from their German farms in Minnesota to work seasonally in the Detroit factories. Like their Minnesotan ancestors, Anja grew up speaking German, but lost the ability to speak their mother's tongue due to custody complications. They have since earned a Bachelor of Arts in English and German and will be immigrating to Germany later this year to keep reconnecting with their culture.