I used to wonder where all the school busses went
Between the hours of 9 and 2
And all summer long
I once asked where everyone goes
When they say they go home for the holidays
My mom told me
A parking lot in Cincinnati
And I vowed never to go home, ever
When I grew up.
She asked if my classrooms were filled
With round tables or square
I asked why and she said
A new study links square tables to alzheimer’s
I can’t remember which kind of tables we had,
But I believed her.
My mother also told me that eating raw sugar
Would give me worms
And the bogeyman carried a splintering broomstick
And not to concern myself
With what my sisters were allowed to do.
To this day
I have always wanted to stay on a bus past the end of the route
I’ve never gone home for the holidays
I hate square tables if I remember to feel any way at all
I use sweetener instead of sugar
I have never hired landscapers
And I have not given one thought
To what my sisters are up to.
She also told me not to lie.
The older I get the more blurred my instructions were
What lies to hold true
and what truths to let lie
Hannah Litvin is a poet and storyteller in Philadelphia, PA. She is a practicing Jew, but defected from Texas after a 90 degree Christmas in 2012 out of principal. She has work featured in and upcoming in The Violet Hour Press and Summertide Magazine.