Homecoming

Step carefully, the earth here is more rugged than you
and my memory is wrapping itself into the soil
right alongside the earthworms. This familiarity,
the rusty brown fertility and the smell of dirt and leaves decomposing, is home.

Follow me past this gnarled twisting trunk -
just there, sit down and look up through the leaves and twisting languid limbs.
See how the sun has seperated into visible rays
that filter down into your eye,
how gently the wind pushes the branches?
I was here for years.

The kitchen is through this door -
the knob still feels ready to slip off into my grip.
How empty and ready for life this room is still
muted grey walls - unassuming and adaptable observers,
equally regarding first kisses (and our kises), Sunday dinners,
threatening fathers who wield themselves
with more authority than they could create.

We follow this hallway as far
as it goes and here - this whitewashed room
was where I could never sleep. Let me
turn out the too-bright lights then
look at the ceiling, how I arranged the stars,
Leo was above my head at night. Sit down
beside me, I just discovered this mattress
isn't as uncomfortable as I remember.

Sleeping now, I am swimming through today,
through this house, this tired splintery home,
still angry at its vacancy, this rundown shithole,
and still missing my invented memories.
I lean in
as I roll over
touch your chest to my lips,
then my ear.
Listening to your steadiness
and finally today I rest.