Backdrift

You always go home.  

Look at the house, occupied  

thrice over in the decades since you left it.  

Look at the bones 

of the town in which you were raised–  

ghosts in the marrow, 

graveyard of your parents.  

I’ll go look at the house, once you’ve left it, 

and the outline of your absence.  

I’ll fall into fitful dreams of 

holding you like smoke in my lungs.