Faint Hunger/New Poem (Rough First Draft)
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.