Draft 5: A Bogeyman

[alonso ramoran]

from the balcony; gold shot
from the shadows, snatching
my attention. Past the yard, there's darkness,
cool and wet where things that may not be
hide in the gossiping of leaves. Maybe

I shouldn't be out here digging
right now. I dust my knees, set down
the garden shovel, then headed back inside.

Before climbing up the balcony steps, 
there was a ring, lodged in silt
beneath the softly flowing creek,
winking in the light.

Wires clattering, I found him stooped
beneath his desk. Dad, look.
I held out his relief. Time

went on until I was a pirate, 
swinging from a blanket tethered 
to my upper bunk bed, when I heard 
him and Ma yelling in the living room.

Their words are bitter as a morning
coffee without the routine sugar.
I'm not sure what I can do.

I leave my room and see
Ma go outside
to fling something

Draft 4: A Bogeyman



...flung it from the balcony, 

snatching my attention 

as if it were a belt loop on 

a kitchen drawer handle. 

 

A hammock sways beneath that roof, 

lightly scrunched in absence 

of a body. The hanging shade  

poses evils from my parents' tales 

that would abduct me 

for digging in their yard 

again for buried treasure. 

 

A step before the stairs, I saw  

my father's wedding band 

loosely lodged into silt beneath 

softly flowing limpid water, 

winking in the light.

                                    This feels familiar.

 

I found him scrambling  

along the cords beneath his desk, 

called to him, and revealed his relief  

in my filthy palms: a grimy wet ring. 

 

Weeks later, I had been a pirate  

swinging from a blanket tethered to 

the upper bunk bed when I heard 

a commotion from the living room. 

 

One of parents arguing with 

words that scratched the air, 

bitter as forgotten sugar in 

the coffee they talked over 

almost every morning. 

 

Soon I figured this was not 

a matter of forgotten sugar 

when my mom took his ring  

and in a fit of anger, she...





Draft 3: A Bogeyman



...it was flung from the balcony 

and yanked at my attention 

as if it were a belt loop 

on a kitchen drawer handle; 

and I considered if it was a trout 

that made the sound of plopping 

in the shallow creek—where

a trout would actually 

splash for life. 

 

A hammock sways beneath that roof,

lightly scrunched in absence

of a body. The hanging shade

suggests a malice, drawn  

from my parents' stories, to abduct me,

for digging up their yard.



A step before the stairs 

I saw my father's wedding band

loosely lodged into the silt beneath 

the softly flowing limpid water, 

winking in the light.

                                    This feels familiar.

 

I found my father scrambling 

along the cords beneath his desk, 

called to him, and revealed his relief 

in my filthy palms: a grimy wet ring. 

 

Weeks later, I had been a pirate 

swinging from a blanket tethered to 

the upper bunk bed when I heard 

a commotion from the living room. 

 

One of parents arguing with 

words that scratched the air,

bitter as forgotten sugar in 

the coffee they talked over 

almost every morning.



Soon I figured this was not 

a matter of forgotten sugar 

when my mom took his ring  

and in a fit of anger...





Draft 2: A Ghost



...it was flung from the balcony

and yanked at my attention

as if it were a belt loop

on a kitchen drawer handle;

and I considered if it was a trout

that made its sound

of plopping in the shallow creek-

where a trout would actually

splash for life.



Had it been some boogeyman

that didn't want me digging up

our green and even yard?



If it is, then it's watching

and I had better stop this mess

and head back in to leave

bits of muddy shadows that reveal

the reason for my silence.



A step before the stairs

I saw my father's ring

loosely lodged into the silt beneath

the softly flowing limpid water,

winking in the light.

A sight I might've seen

within a dream.



I found my father scrambling

along the cords beneath his desk,

called to him, and revealed his relief

in my filthy palms, a grimy wet ring.



Weeks later, I had been a pirate swinging

from a blanket tethered to

the upper bunk bed when I heard

a commotion from the living room.



One of parents arguing 

with words that scratched the air

with forgotten sugar's bitterness 

in the coffee they talked over

almost every morning.

Soon I figured this was not

a matter of forgotten sugar

when my mom had took his ring 

and in a fit of anger...





Draft 1: A Ghost



it was flung from the balcony

and had a sharply yanking light 

at my attention like those lousy handles 

on those kitchen drawers getting caught 

inside a belt loop- jerking at the hips;

and I considered if it was a trout

that made its sound

of plopping in the shallow creek-

where a trout would actually

splash for life.

 

Had it been some greedy specter

protecting buried treasure 

from my excavation 

of our green and even yard? 

 

If it is, then they are watching 

and I had better stop this mess 

and head back in to leave

bits of muddy shadows that confess

the reason for my quietude. 

 

Before I reached the stairs I saw 

what looked like my father's ring 

loosely lodged into the silt beneath 

the softly flowing limpid water

winking at its artifice and artfice

that made it feel like

this has happened all before. 

 

I found my father scrambling 

along the cords beneath his desk 

and called to him and held out my hand 

to reveal his relief in the grimy wet ring 

in my filthy palms that reminded him to remind me 

his ring is a memento of the day

he said his lifelong vows

to the slaving woman known by me as "mom"

        and an expensive ring at that.

 

Weeks later,

they had an argument like they forgot

the sugar in the coffee

they talked over almost every morning;

and every word was black and bitter

and exchanged unfiltered;

until she took his ring  

and, with all her anger,