I come from suitcases
from generations (three) of packing tape
lately book boxes from UTotem
filled with the detritus of a dissertation
Each move a chance to clean house
begin a new life unencumbered
a nautilus w/out her chambered shell
I am throwing away my childhood
the early years of love & marriage
stitched into linens from Hong Kong
teapots from Korea
and bronzeware from another life
Flipping to another page within a book
I haven’t written yet
the story of a woman and a man
and someone else’s baby
I tell myself:
It’s only one more time
One more house to make a home
One more map to learn
And one more utter dislocation
You’d think I would adapt
but something there is that doesn’t love
this kind of change
the suitcases the boxes the move
the goodbyes and the distances
that feel a bit like deaths
and send me in to mourning