BETWEEN FERAL FINGERS

I want to go home and I do not mean

where I grew up, the townhouse with

the peeling red shutters and ten goldfish

preserved in alcohol and buried in the backyard.

When I say I want to go home I mean the bend

of your neck in November and semi-golden strands 

slipping like silk between feral fingers and

limitless anatomy and not enough time to take

all of it in. I associate home with haunting 

bookshelves at the library, peering between

uneven stacks of alphabetized encyclopedias

and then walking home and kicking off 

our shoes without untying them first.

Home is desperate— all of our hasty acts,

the sacred profane, leaving nothing unsaid

and no parts untouched. I want nothing

more than to go there, to stop for a while

and observe our geography— three summers

and lifetimes of passion— to visit long enough

to absorb it all for good. Would you let me climb

into your bed, pull the covers over my head?

Or would it be too much, too real to relive? 

Tell me before I try.

Or would you even want me to?

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