this is my home, i said, and
the smiling photos hanging on the
stairs seemed to concur.
it comes back to me:
child i was— dirty
fingernails, twisted
teeth— exalting in
summer storms
thrumming against my window,
or weeping
over dead fireflies in a jar and
panhandlers when my father kept
his wallet closed, or clambering
along the magnolia branches, green and
tender footed.
i learned:
lemonade. dandelions. laughter.
(remorse. shame. disgust.)
still so little i remember:
that kind, odd child— haunting
the crabapple trees,
searching
for goblins in the pampas grass.
two old friends strung together by a garbled line:
“i miss the dreams,” i admit.
this is my home, i said.
i won’t be
back—