The town I grew up on had
it all: drinking, gambling,
thieving, whoring: an embarrassment
of wretches. Like me. I once was
last chance for conveniences on
a highway littered with churches,
Church’s Chicken, and more churches.
Got schooled in Chinatown dice, Hong
Kong, Horse, and Liar’s, where at the
lake Insurance Jerry might blow
you or Lyin’ Don or Datsun Joe and
how to get picked up at the dirty movies
in the back of the dirty bookstore or
where to score and who to score and how.
But pretty soon we all got crabs from
Lyin’ Don or named as suspects when
they pressured Little David to wear
a wire. People say, Oh how lucky to
grow up in a small place where you
know everybody at the town pump.
Sweetie, can’t eat just peaches. And you
can only catch the same crabs twice.
how did this poem begin for you?
Some seeds one carries a lifetime without knowing they’re going to sprout. I lived in a town named after a surviving member of the Donner Party, and I certainly thought about it a long, long time but never thought it was a subject to write about. And, really, this poem isn’t about that survivor, Mary Covillaud, but about the survivor I was, getting by with no sense, a queer kid in a rough town, depending, as Blanche DuBois would say, on the kindness of strangers. I guess when I realized that Mary and I were not so different—her eating her way to the top, me eating my way to the bottom—it all just sort of fell into place. Some details got changed, but not much. The town was surrounded by peach orchards. And the great outbreak of crabs happened after a massive levee break, when surrounding communities were flooded and evacuees were in relief shelters. Everything got passed around. But I was itching to get out, and did.
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