(god, i thought i would have to be drunk to write this, but i don’t feel pain anymore.

not really.)

 

 

There is a place

I used to call home.

Constellations flickered across the night sky.

Orion, Cassiopeia, Ursa Major.

There were blooms of baby’s breath and roses that smelled like my first lover,

or maybe the moon.

I could tell you that most days were sunny there,

and I would lay out on the meadow and think of things that had

no consequence.

I could tell you that when it rained

it smelled like fresh laundry and enchanted dreams.

Birds fluttered high,

drifting among the soft clouds,

and fairies danced in circles of light around my head.

 

 

There is a place

I used to call home,

but last year there was a meteor shower, and I haven’t seen the stars since.

Sometimes,

if I concentrate hard enough,

I look through my telescope and I can see my mother, drifting through the universe.

Over the winter, there was a forest fire.

I don’t want to tell Smokey I just wanted to be warm.

I don’t want to admit that I killed all of the flowers and now the meadow is black.

The news said it was a

freak accident.

I’d like to tell them that everything I touch goes up in flames, but

my sister thinks that’s a bad idea.

 

 

There is a place

I used to call home,

but just two days ago, there was a flash flood.

Or I so thought, but water is still rising, and it smells like death and choking trees.

The birds flew South and the world screamed

“Fairies don’t exist.”

And now I’m stuck burying all of their bodies, and

looking for a light that might have made it through the night.

 

I was thinking about home, the other day, but images of cemeteries kept taking over, and

I guess they are sort of the same.

 

 

I guess they are sort of the same.