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.
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Emily AlexanderEmily is a student working on a degree in Creative Writing from the University of Idaho. |