
Beatrice Iker
Poem #15: We Were Nameless Children
Updated: May 6, 2022
As children, we were cursed beneath the oak tree off Dandridge Avenue
we forgot our names
& everyone else forgot them too
Our mothers held us firm, fierce, fast in their trembling arms
but their tongues couldn’t make words that didn’t exist
we didn’t exist
not anymore
You asked me not to scream so much
As children, we ran up the church steps
eager, yearning to see each other
I held you in my arms, we were thick like the bacon in the skillet two rooms over
Mama didn’t let me in the kitchens
your Mama didn’t let you either
Nameless Children weren’t allowed that reverential experience
(we never felt right at church anyways)
As children, we walked down to Old Mrs. Evans’ house
She died in ‘87 we’re told
but the empty, scarlet house sat, begging for Nameless Children to find it
begging for us to make it a home again
So, we peeled off floral wallpaper in
thin, wispy curls
that never came away in the same direction or in the same size
We sat on couches with tiny, pointy, black mites
but they ran away when we kicked at them
You were afraid, so I was the only one who went into the bathroom
The dark ring inside the toilet isn’t what made me laugh
it was the way my hair looked right
there
when I was alone
among noxious mold
not in the sun, or when I was with you
You asked me not to scream so much
When we were teenagers
(our tongues slipping inside each other’s mouths)
I think we were looking for our names in each other’s body
because where else could they be?
we’d looked everywhere but there
all we found, though, was a craving
so shattered
so feverish
so without structure, hope, and goodness
it had to belong to us
You understand why I gotta scream, right?
They tore down Old Mrs. Evan’s house off Dandridge Avenue
(shopping mall)
They found dogs, cats, and a peculiar bird buried out back
but they didn’t find anything else