Coming home to the sweet familiar
I returned, a stranger.
Coming home to the soft light and sticky rain,
coming home to my familiar language, fluent words
entwined in this city’s strange and ceaseless roar.
I buy too much wine and olives
and imagine I am home.
A young black man bends down, apologizes
“excuse me, I’m sorry miss” before he’s even near me,
as he bums a half-used cigarette from the sidewalk.
I flinch anyway, and he vanishes. I don’t like this script.
I speak Hebrew to a clerk by mistake.
This subway car and this life hurtle forward.
Another life ago I traded home for something
I can no longer define.
I’ve heard what I seek is already here,
I only have to stop searching
so damn hard.
(still in the backlog)