I’m made of a motley assortment of
broken things
half-finished projects
a shelf with a big sign: “fix us!”
gathering too much dust
That’s what little Katjes are made of.
The scents in my sense-memory include
sea spray and seaweed, endemic to the park near where I grew up
loamy dirt and pine; our backyard trees grew with me
the humous of our root cellar; my little legs getting me just close enough
to grab a fresh onion for the soup.
That’s what little Katjes are made of.
I’m from the CRASH BANG FLASH
of a sudden storm
crouched right about my bed like a hungry dragon
and the comfort the fort of my covers
(indestructible)
brought me.
That’s what little Katjes are made of.
I’m woven
knitted
crocheted
a warm fuzzy thing, made with love
from bits of yarn
shaped into a blanket by
mom’s adept hook hand.
That’s what little Katjes are made of.
I’m from the words falling from mom’s lips
tiny paintbrushes
making a mural in my mind
of a talking lion
a wicked witch
and four siblings who became Queens and Kings
of the world beyond the wardrobe.
That’s what little Katjes were made of.
I am the perfect mix of brains and lazy, cunning ambition
that sits in the back of class
making snarky comments
the bronze eagle and the green snake
entwine in my spirit
— but the snake is stronger.
That’s what Katje is made of.
I am from enough left-over fur
to build a dog-sledding team
and a wolfish bow
a wild invitation to play
That’s what Katje is made of.
I’m from skin that eats metal
cups of cold water flung into a hot shower
a treehouse made of cedar
with my family crests hanging in the windows
above a pile of cigarette butts
and other detritus
That’s what big Katje is made of.