Homecoming

Tremendous
grief.
Galaxies spin around
inside my belly.


Pain like smeared
zebra stripes
across glass.
what am i doing here?

my ego shrinks and withers
under this
intense heat.
Fruit rots.
They do not grow and

I cannot have
been away or surely I would not feel so
desperately dead inside.

Innocent bystanders watch and dodge
the arrows so carefully
aimed to miss.
Rubber tips
and suction cups.
Impotent.

I am in the crossfire.

Shame like indigestion moves around
inside me
and rises to the
surface of my skin
like gas in water.


If I were
a sculptor
I would sculpt a woman out of lead
and I would leave
the edges rough and bulky
and I would twist it like
a grotesque helix
and I would hand it to my family and say
YOU MAKE ME FEEL LIKE THIS.

Then I would leave it in their house and
go away for Christmas
with a special friend I chose myself.