home

III. House upon the Rock

On some soon afternoon I'll fly back home,
Well-weighted down with everything I own.
To sweet iced tea and Southern drawls I go,
Along the driveway, through our bright red door
To follow puppy nose, proud gaze, soft hands
Upstairs to my own bed in my own room.

But far off from that bed and from that room
Is this bedroom that has lately marked my home,
And far off from that nose, that gaze, those hands
Are these corners I have lately made my own,
And far off from that driveway and that door,
This gate that screeches grudges when I go.

I'm learning how to take root on the go.
Each year a different bed, another room:
Relearn the twist of wrist to lock the door.
Each year I have nine months to make a home,
Of furniture you'd never want to own
That's made to hide the prints of strangers' hands.

When I was three my mother took my hands
In plaster held them still, then let me go
To play at building stories on my own.
Queen mother of a kingdom in my room,
I had no need for sad-sweet words like home,
The whole known world was behind our front door.

My world now pivots far beyond that door;
Those prints now pantomime my adult hands,
Which clench in silence when I miss my home
To stifle sadness, help me bravely go
Again to this year's bed and this year's room
Where I (for real) am building on my own.

I often find it difficult to own
All that I do beyond that red front door
Sometimes it seems that I don't have the room
To hold life's pebbles in my two small hands:
Each chip of stone from each new place I go,
Each piece of what will someday be my home.

Though hands of time again transform my own,
I still will rally going out the door
To look for bits of home beyond my room.

Devin Yagel
(friend of mine)