They say birds always find their way back home
but home is a nowhere – a memory; a never was.
Do wings remember spaces in the air
the way we might a place? A cathedral square?
How do you fly back to that? Away from
a tomb of fears, this place yearning for you…
Some years ago, I lay bright flowers on
my father’s grave. Years later, I saw
my grandfather’s ashes taken by the
roots of roses.
I am not myself nor have I ever been
something apprehending the sun
and other bright celestial objects
thinking: this is a tapestry in orbit
around me. I am completely convinced that
we may have been the last creatures to discover
how to be in the world. My heart grows wild.
My future children brush past me in the darkness.
Their chattering voices fill my ears and
then my chest and I cannot hold it in.
I am always coming home.
heavenfaced 