moscow, id

right now, 3 states away, the last of fall harvest
is settling into the chest of tractor 
troughs. i remember watching wheat fields unraveling
like knobby knees and nervous
bodies. there was a time when that was
enough. when i only had one house, when the ground
didn't count as one, when i knew staying
like tattoos know skin, despite the rest 
of the body. i want to write a poem
about my father's heartbeat, but
i don't quite remember it. it's been a long time since i fit
in his lap. listen, i have unlocked cities trying
to learn how to laugh without this deadbolt mouth,
and i am still shy. and i am always missing
someone. i know that right now in Idaho,
light is pressing against grain silos as my mother
presses her fingertips into the piano. if this was enough,
i would still be there. if this was enough, i wouldn't 
think of home as a poem
about longing, about question marks, the pause
between notes. my own hands
pressing against a window in california.