Pantyspydded:  Walk 10
a poem in draft

 

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II.
In years past,
the following months and the rest
of my life, I am asked where
I am from. Somewhere
on the ride from my mother's
house to the plane that took me
to you, somewhere
on our way I have lost
the coordinates: Where is home?

People expect me
to name a city or town,
recollect wooden stairs, a pool
in the backyard, other
picket-fenced-in
ideals.

What if I instead
told stories of riding
a black mare bareback,
suggested the hazy
horizon where a dipping Sun
is shared by ocean and sky
or confided the room
number where I lost my virginity?
What is going home and who
will I find there?

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