Headphones in, I
decipher poetry on a
downhill San Diego hike,
new melodies for old
wounds, the white gravel
crunching and shuffling
underfoot as I meander
to a borrowed room on
a coast I pretend, for today,
is home.
What would my life be like
here, I muse, and I know:
I would ache for everywhere
I’ve ever lived, but
the minute I booked a flight
anywhere else, I
wouldn’t want to go.
If you master the craft
of making home wherever
you wander, you will
never be lost and
you will always be
missing something,
someone, somewhere –
The sun-drenched earth
of Indiana summers, cornfields
swaying en route to
backyard barbecues, the
bustle of Muncie in August,
backpacked walkers groggy
every morning, lost in the
sprawl of some Manhattan,
charmed by the glimmer
of Astoria trains tearing
by overhead.
My poems cannot decide
whether I’m grieving or
grateful, and I keep room
for both, and every home,
and every wound, my
scars and stories
two sides of the same
visceral wanting, the
skin-scrape of hope
and healing and hurt,
and I am home, here again,
I am home.
michael king 