Pittsburgh was built

in the flood plain

and I grew with

roots splayed

in the silt

on the street

that gets left behind.

I sink my claws

into cracks

in the concrete

carved by repeated

aquatic barrage.

I’ve learned to

scale hillsides,

and bridge supports,

and telephone poles.

Knees full of cinders

and splinters.

Knees on legs

that steady me

on the soft ground

of subsided mines,

of mudslides,

and vow to be

an altruistic pier

at every brown,

rushing

confluence.

An erasure poem. (Ports of the Sun by Eleanor Early, page 33.)

I do not think much of // people.

When I liked some // people // my

Lonely heart fell into the hands of // men

Who were // brown as gingerbread.

They eat people—

Swallow // in a single gulp.

To evolve,

I need to

risk

openness.

Talk about

me,

let others

in, accept

help,

Help others.

Be a friend.