Channel 8

Channel 8

I do not like my brown hair in this stale pony tail

It is a small town where I have grown and I don’t recognize my skin anymore

but I recognize the miles between Chattanooga and Atlanta without opening my eyes

It is the same PBS show everyday

My memaw always had those rabbit ears dressed up with foil so that I could sit still in front of a reading rainbow

Channel 8’s only interruption is the static of a blackbird migration to familiarity

Their voices break like the glass of a shattered TV screen and I think I would trade places with them if I could continue North instead of turning back

or become a salmon fighting current if my hair would grow a different shade under water

Just some proof that I am not growing in reverse


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