Homesickness Is a Geographic Nostalgia
Home: it is the undergrowth in me
that grows over, that tangles and
takes cover and is awake and cannot
be staked down. It is the vine
or brush that will not be burned
or groomed or cured or curled,
at its bracket or martyr or marrow,
at its emptiness minus branches,
an answer or a bruise. This poverty
in me you mistake for sleep. This cape
I wear as if to cope. This open door
like a sore healed over or a shape
one may shift. This part of me
adrift or lost at sea. This part of me
the blight one cannot cure. This
part of me unsure and bearing witness.
If I am a story, this is the caesura.
If I am a cello, this is its string.
Home has an ownership of me I milk
or battle. Home has in me a rattle
I make of the way light falls, voice
another breathes. I grieve its likeness
like a lover. I grieve it now that it is
over. I dig for it like gold. I bury it
in the ground. Store the fat. Salt
the meat. Understand the starve to come
until it blooms like moths. Not one
sound mimics its hover. I feel for it
and its smother, its smock, its collar,
its wool coat, its clover, all I am
when with another, all I am when
also alone. Its wolf tone or soured liver.
Its hospice or clouded mirror. Its
ribbon, rack, or battered father. If it is
a beaker, I am the experiment. If it is
the bubble, I am the reaction. If it is
the laboratory, I am ready to explode.
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