The house packed up itself with my own hands.
I chanted mantras just to get me through.
For years I’d dreamed that any other land
would promise more than Brush, but now I knew
the house had commandeered my very arms
and learned to move— itself out of itself—
a dream that leaves a body in alarm.
Boxed books revealed my skin on every shelf.

Once I escaped the little town, the house
lived on as empty rooms of light inside
my mind. I’d close my eyes and try to douse
the ache with inner sky. I’d beg: Abide
in me a little longer, dreaming me.
But home is not a house turned body, see.


One Response to “Home”

  1. Fey says:

    I know this ache. For I have it every time I’m on the other side of my front door.
    My fingers hold the knob and my arm stretches to the length of my ride

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