And now we come to it. We come
to the source of it all, and I
haven’t mentioned you once. How is that?
Is it progress, or is this back- sliding?
Do I want you to tell me I’m worthy?
Perhaps I still do. You lurk in
cheesecloth dark, a humpback skull
in a budget apartment clinging to the ceiling
unable to help your size. Those forests are still
there— in Cherokee, in Gatlingburg, in
Sonoma, on Hunting Island. The turtle shell
cannot hold a wider circle. Come east.
Follow the Greenway down and down.
Wear your Best Shoes. Bring your hair.
I marry in November. Come home to me.
I’m no longer your home. Give me away and dance.