DiaBLOGue

They are overmatched from the beginning. 
Even the black block numbers on their backs
seem to loom on the jerseys that hang slack 
and flap about their narrow bodies, smooth

Quarry workmen slice open the past,
pry limestone chunks with picks, 
shave each delicate layer 
with a chisel and a sledge. 

With a neighbor who couldn’t tolerate light, 
I took stairs in the dark, 
felt for knobs and shapes 
of cabinets in windowless rooms. At home, 

“A crackerbox,” my mother called it, 
            Her marriage’s first scene. 
My first home, my brother’s, tucked 
            Far back for remembering, 
The place where she dyed feedsacks 
            To curtain the windowscreens.