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?