Come Home
You do not have to wear
these different voices,
the stranger on the telephone,
the shout over the wall.
Our house is fragments of rooms,
shattered glass from a falling lamp.
the light left on over night.
Outside has become a different country.
The white wonder painted thickly
across the hill as the early morning sun
signs its name along my tongue.
There will be no more tattoos.
The challenge of being broken
into pieces, learning this new language
of isolation, how to navigate distance.
I set sail across the kitchen floor,
fearing the edge of translation.
There are such silences between us.
I want to write welcome in the window
even if the door is stripped naked,
closed until further notice.
English