Glass Poetry Press

Volume Five Issue One

Sandy Longhorn

Autobiography as Muscle Memory

Traveling to the house of born and raised, I dredge a map from muscle memory. If I said the bones called me home, I'd be taking the easy way out; instead, it was the scent of blood I bled when pounding shingles into the roof, the sweat of July making the hammer slip and crush my thumbnail. Instead, the flavor of salt rubbed into floorboards after the tears of my first lost lover. Instead, the memory of words I scrawled on walls about to be covered in paper and paint. My mother's lessons about the way a life can be rearranged with a strong back and a willingness to change.