E.A. (Aug 2009)

(Not a poem about love. Shocking.)

You started visiting the night
the hummingbird appeared.
I began seeing places that could easily
be described as home.
First I'd be standing on a back porch,
gazing at an old grey garage
standing guard at the end of the lawn.
Later I was watching you make coffee
(in a coffee pot I've since inherited)
on the stove in a kitchen
without a stitch of 'brand new' vibe.
I noticed the curtains, faded
and floral and unchanged.
You were speaking but I cannot shake
the visual details out of the way,
and so those words are lost.
In both places there is light,
and the color green.

Did you come because the hummingbird called you?
Because you're restless, and so am I?
Sometimes, when I'm sweaty from the heat wave
and barely awake,
I imagine you snuck in,
while I was dreaming,
and drew the bird and flowers on my ribcage.
As if you say "Remember home"
or "Go home again."
I wish the message weren't so coded,
stuck in dreams and tattooed scenes
of places loved and lost.