This one doesn't have a title yet... I actually wrote it as part of a short series of experimental nonfiction last semester, but I am workshopping it as an individual poem this semester. Any title ideas?



I have only one memory of our first move:
Nuns carried the refrigerator into my new house:
The house on 67 Constance Street,
which would become 4 Paige Drive.

My mother says this memory is false was
born is because I was only three. And
it rained on moving day.
And the movers wore black raincoats with
hoods drawn up against the wet March cold.

One move in the first eighteen years:
Nine moves in the next seven.
I still have the same desk
I received for my ninth birthday and a
Ziploc bag of New Hampshire leaves
My mother sent me in the mail.