Faint Hunger/New Poem (Rough First Draft)

Faint Hunger

I have a faint hunger for home today,

for family. For the way my mother would

stroke the curved outer of my ear until

I felt safe enough to sleep.

 

I remember when I would treasure a fever.

When I could use my parent’s bed as my

private island, read until my eyelids closed

and I cut the bridge of my nose on the page tops.

 

Goodbye felt breakable on the phone last night.

 

She’s been looking at my books recently, my mother.

Picking ones off my shelves at random, reading

pages I would turn with the very tips of my fingers

so as not to crease them.

 

I’d like to take a capsule of moonlight with my water

and medication this evening. Let it soak through

my marrow, light my bones in a soft glow, so I can

sleep the sleep I’ve missed in a pool of light.

 

I’d like to dream my tomorrow will work like a newly

oiled hinge, and I can stand iron brave, maybe even smile.

 

I made a tuna salad without looking. Ate it

without enjoying. It lacked salt and love.

 

I have a faint hunger for home.

For familiar folk. My backbone is cold.

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