My mom likes to say she gave me her tongue—
not the muscle
but the ability to move worlds with it.
She anointed me with her fury,
her impatience,
the power to gaze within your opponent
and pluck their greatest insecurity
from their chest.
She birthed me in her image,
a reflection she must avoid
lest she take the blame for my fire.
Something to claim if I use my power for good,
singing “That’s my daughter!”
to her friends when I win tournaments
in debate because all I seem to do is
refute, refute, refute.
But when I cut her with words
woven from her womb,
I am her greatest error.
My mom gifted me her tongue—
no, not as a gift,
but as an attempt to cleanse
herself, to pass illness
from host to donor, parent to child.
It didn’t work,
and I am the proof—
the fights we detonate with our words,
two soldiers dueling for the last breath.
I’ll come to her room after we argue,
the poison still on my lips.
We say “sorry,” “forgive me,”
but there’s no peace
between women like us.
When they ask which parent I mirror,
I claim my father’s face.
But in my disposition, I am my mother’s daughter;
the venom she could never purge,
the anger she never could swallow,
the echo of all her pain.
Everything she tries to bury,
I resurrect. Everything she despises,
I become. I am my mother’s daughter,
all her rage, all her upset,
and it hurts like hell
We drove for two hours
to the badlands of Cleveland
searching the streets and the alleys
just to find our way
to find a safe way
into The House of Wills.
We were met with armed guards
all meant to protect us
milling the grounds and
defending the building and
they dissuaded the worst that would come
from attacking the models
as we all collected in the lot at
The House of Wills.
It was cold and broken and
old and hurting but
its energy glowed in warm light
I felt no fear and
no apprehension, just wonder
for all I would find,
deep within
The House of Wills.
It didn’t take long
for those inside there
to make their intentions known
they only did so for so few among us
and I was welcomed as one of their own
I was gifted with offerings
so simple and humble
and embraced by
The House of Wills
Respect was my mantra
respect was my prayer and
I treated their home as my own
what once looked broken and
what once looked abandoned
lifted to life on its own
something so simple as
the flicking of ashes
out the window instead of the floor
endeared my spirit to
The House of Wills and
it called me as one of its own.
Deep down in the morgue or
up in Mr. Wills’ bedroom,
the Doll Room, the balcony and stairs
all seemed so different but
not one bit unnerving and I
roamed the halls as a welcomed guest
of those that still live there and
those that still love there
me so far removed from
all of the rest.
But back to the Doll Room
again and again
in there I felt a warmth and a draw
so back to the Doll Room and
within its power
I felt all the family and
I felt all its pain and
I offered a solemn acceptance and prayer
and for all of my wishes and
all of my gestures
I was given a gift of my own.
One of my many blessings from
The Ghosts of
The House of Wills.
When it came time to leave
I was almost saddened
still I walked away better than most
I collected my gifts and
I left my own offering in a
gesture of thanks and respect
a sadness for leaving and a
wonder receiving all that
changed hands that day and
my heart was now full and
my spirit was easing
as I waved to all my new friends.
Some came to visit and
stayed for some time and
they came to me
inside of my dreams
we talked and we smoked
and sat down at tables
playing cards and discussing this life.
All of it wisdom and
none of it nightmare and
all of it welcoming love
I was accepted and
I was supported
as wonders were drawn and exposed
those wonders and questions
that keep us all guessing and
push all the blood to the flow
but here they all were now and
here they were offered
on the table on top
of the cards.
I dreamt that I bought it
and now it was mine this
wonderful beautiful place
I dreamt that I owned it and
made it my home and
I returned to
The House of Wills.
I chased out the vagrants
with the help of old friends and
transients rushed down my halls
scared to bejesus and
scared of unknowns and
they ran out until there were none
all of them gone but
all of us still there
settling into our new home.
We were now all together
in dreams and in Dolls
in balconies, altars and pews
we now lived together
complete and content
embraced by
The House of Wills.
After much deliberation, Radu concluded his name was Merlin.
Merlin was the greatest wizard of all.
Radu had first been Houdini, the Master of Illusions,
But all that magicians worked with was perception after all.
Reality remained unchanged.
A wizard, on the other hand, could cast spells with their wands.
Radu had two Magic Wands instead of one.
To double the power.
Radu and the wands were inseparable.
He also wore his Cloak of Invisibility all day long, even late at night,
Between the crumpled tattered sheets.
It had become his second skin.
The wands and the cloak became his fighting arms and armor.
His mother disagreed. She called them willow twigs and filthy garbage bags.
But Radu’s faith was strong.
Magic could make everything and anything real if one willed it hard enough.
All wizards had to do was twist their wands and say the magic words.
Abracadabra, the bills, paid, the electricity and water on again.
Hocus-pocus-preparatus, food, steaming on the table.
Otipy-motipy-poof, Radu’s sisters home as well.
Hax pax max Deus adimax, his father’s heart beating in his chest again.
When Radu’s father was alive, he would swing his children one by one.
Merry-go-rounds would make the girls sick.
But Radu was fine.
And then, unlike his sisters, he had the wizard’s tools to keep him home.
But Radu’s will grew weaker by the day,
So the wands lost all their magic in the end.
Then he turned his face to Jesus.
Jesus could put food on the table.
He had multiplied the fish and bread
And turned water into wine.
So Jesus might just as well turn paper money into real money
Jesus had even brought the dead to life.
Wake up, Lazarus, He said,
And Lazarus woke from the dead.
Radu believed that resurrecting his father would be an easy task for Jesus.
If Jesus could do all that, Radu was going to be Jesus.
For only Jesus could convince his mother not to sell him.
Some buy retail, others wholesale goods.
Children would go solo or in pairs.
Radu’s older sisters went in pairs.
His mother shipped them two by two to England and America.
Radu was the last one left.
He would go
Solo.
$1,000 was the asking price for an 8 year old.
Negotiable.
New born babies would be more expensive,
But Radu was already old.
When his time came, Radu begged and pleaded
But in vain.
Just like the other four already sold.
Two other babies were growing in his mother’s belly after all.
I arrived at a destination that was far away from home.
It was more like isolation. I felt alone!
Drowning, watching water surround me on every side,
called my parents every day and often cried.
I searched for ways to escape this place,
because with each passing day, a little more of my joy died,
but I kept praying for the loneliness to subside.
This place had me rooted in an abyss of despair.
I started to think that no one cared.
I found myself chained in depression,
searching for signs of regression,
while battling crippling questions,
navigating the lows that lead to suicidal ideations,
wishing that my heart and mind would enter mediation,
and that all these feelings were just a part of my imagination.
How could I let myself get to such a place where I was left feeling alone this way?
I thought I was stronger! I can’t stay here any longer.
I have to make a change!
It’s time for me to rearrange my thoughts, for not from trying,
I found myself pondering. Is this all that life has left?
Should I stay or should I go?
At this very moment, the answer would deliver my parents a devastating blow.
I don’t undertand the point
What is the point
What is MY point
I am at my point
About to burst at any point
About to cry at any point
At the knives point
I make one final point
