Locating
1.
I had a dream called “home”, although defining it
became detrimental to the dozen who depended on me.
I took to carving my name in juicy sap-lined
branches so they would be found, a hundred years
later and someone would think I truly lived amidst such poplar.
Someone always hankered for a hacksaw, with wide
hard swings they used my name to kindle fires.
2.
I took to writing my name in mud, such a stir, I caused
that father planted blue grass seeds in hopes
for better crop. Mother wept over her garden
and yanked weeds up by their roots, threw them over
the barnyard fence. Perhaps that is where I learned
to thrive in shit for I spent a long time in that mire.
3.
Once, when we built our beautiful new house,
with big dark beams holding one level after another
up where it could be seen, I took a wood-burner
and scrawled my name in hidden places, so I lived
there as long as the house stood. But it was not home,
and might have been easier to leave had I fired it all.
4.
Then, when I had no tree, no grass, no house,
drip of morphine declared me near dead, my bones aching
to go where there was supposed to be a place waiting,
hope drained out of me and I lifted myself up above the bed
and moved swiftly to that higher better hearth.
My father’s hand reached out to welcome me.
I was so tempted, so very willing, but seven children
hung to the responsible hem I had worn for so long.
I could do aught but fold myself up and return
to the half-living skeleton. I knocked at a faint light
and I was let back in to be greeted by my soul.
5.
These days, when I wander through forests,
gallop through changed sceneries, sink
into good ground, eagles tell me who I am,
where I am from and where I am going
and home is where my soul is. My name
is on my door, welcoming you wherever I am.
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