I trace my genealogy

one postcode at a time,

changing an 8 to a 6–

seeing birth & public pools &

footy ovals & milk bars

& liquor stores & forty-

year-old homes

all at once.

a window somewhere knows

of infant me as much

as my parents once did.

a dishwasher underneath it

gashes my forehead &

tells all of teary blood & needy screams–

scarred skin holds this story of

a boy

touched by aluminum

who since has said

he doesn’t need anyone at all.