My iPhone6 lights up
with texts from each coast.
This Sunday night
I am the oldest child,
in the middle
of my people and my places.
Heavy lineage or my period coming
makes me emotional
and I lay on my bathroom floor crying
Cue the existential crisis:
–Who is this? Doesn’t she know she should see a therapist?–
And once tears ebb, I am
different again, evolved with
a fresh skin that I can’t quite discern
from the last one I inherited.
Then I am writing at the table.
This is odd and perhaps good
because I haven’t been able to
write since I last left New Hampshire
and that was two weeks too long ago.
People keep telling me I can always go home.
People keep telling me things.
I am not listening well
because I am looking for the deer in the woods
and she is not trying to hide,
it’s just that the trees wrap around her like a lover’s arms
so she blends in with he and everything
is so alive, not good or bad, but breathing.
My stomach is pressed to the floor.
I am plucking out the story of something here,
with every ounce of glory I have left,
finding the right space on the
violin string to blare out universal cacophony,
and the heralding of song.