I Want This Place to Feel Like Home<\/b><\/p>\n
it\u2019s September and I burn to be part of the world growing out of a cockcrow. there is no earth between my fingers and the rain won\u2019t stop falling. today, i stay indoors and watch LazyTown on tv. in old Norse, the word for home is lenda. I invent my childhood and lick from my yester-love\u2014a knife body standing under the moon-glow in a landscape thick with birdsongs and the chatter of evening chores. what\u2019s desire if not some kind of grace, my heart, a faithful dumb muscle beating only for puffins. if childhood is a body, let me be its hand. to hold firmly its freckle-dirt and bright yellow butterflies of deep joy. a hand crawling with some human-size worship of God. sometimes I feel like the green tang of a woman singing a song in which the world is unlistening, unlistening. I dream, moon-struck and a tongue licks the salt from my upper lip. this is how it finally begins. three boys ago, I language myself into a spring-fed lake\u2013but most of all\u2013at night, in my hand is a coffee cup whose emptying bears the ash of want. what is the word for home? what is the root of that word that kisses me insanely?<\/span><\/p>\n <\/p>\n If This Isn\u2019t Homecoming, What Is?<\/b><\/p>\n