My Identity Narrative

My identity is in a jar in the can house. It’s the white breath exhausted over greasy tools in rusty, silt-filled drawers. The mountain sounds, the back-up sirens, and steam whistles are my sounds. Spring is cold in the high country. Where hills imitate islands. Frayed cables will slice hands and give horrifying slivers. Let them rest, embedded in the mud. I’m flood waters rising in the night, and rafts of firewood and old doors. These chains are too big to reach my hands around but their rust remains on my palms.
I bodily shove my cousin out of our space ship. An upturned wheel barrow resting in a chain-link fence. Underneath we imagine the galaxy. It undermines the rain and hides us from the seeking calls of our Nana.
Gong! My cousin retaliates
I’ve never asked if she was seeing other men. It could have been her tonsillectomy prescription, but she cried and cried when I left, anyway.
I couldn’t remember anyone before, who’d cried over me.
Years later, we’d step from our wedding onto hickory floors. We’d notice the original ’67 light fixtures, and the beautiful kitchen. With double ovens and new countertops. The back, and front patio.
“It was remodeled this year,” our agent would say. “The septic was just pumped and they’ve installed all new appliances. Wait till you check out the garage!”
I’d seen the gnarled plum tree in the front yard.
Then, “Look at the view, babe!” I’d said to Kimie, as we gathered in the front room. Dyes
Inlet below, a sapphire carpet, etched with white boat’s wakes, like Moroccan embroidery.
Both of us would smile, knowing this house would be our house. Our first house.
Kimie uses the ovens to make cookies. I’ve bought her a grey kitten who plays in the hallway while she bakes.

4
I’ve showered three times but still stink. Submarines. Everything is saturated with the mingled stink of fish, and pennies held in a sweating palm. Some smell vomit and ozone, and the locker room. It’s funny what you get used to. All my clothing is still in the garage. It will