November was the eleventh hour
and I spent it reacquainting with
a room full of abandoned selves, the
me who fares oceans by intuition, the
one who sings his story in boisterous
tenor, me whose love blooms
every morning into a bouquet he
cannot help but hand out
In the corner, watching the
window with a rueful gaze, the
me who closes the door to
rooms where he did not
find honest welcome, who
etches boundaries like cliffsides,
keep your distance, I hugged
him and thanked him
The me who sorts the Polaroids
on the hardwood floor, arranges them
into a meaningful thread, he asked me
where you been and laughed
warmly when I confessed it had
been a shin-scrape year, that’s not
the story, he showed me,
whisking the blurry pictures aside,
you see?
I walked into the room,
embarrassed and wary, but
they’d been waiting all the
while, a family doesn’t ask for
explanations upon the return,
just pours a drink and admits
it’s such a relief to feel you here again
michael king 