The force that drew you home -
the blind worm at sunrise drawn without hope
towards the expectant beak - was it
stronger than that which drove you away?
And your brother (the expanding cave was once
both your home, each
of you making use of it
to be different from
the other) - did he ever
forgive you, you who took for granted
all that he had not (forget
the father’s words,
what else could he
utter in explanation)?
Did your mother’s ocean-green eyes ever lose
that sheen - saltwater glistening on the curved shell,
the tide in recession - of pain? Did cousins,
once co-conspirators, and family friends ever cease
that curious sideways glance in your direction?
And in the cloying heat of a summer’s deep blue night
do you lie in your tossed bed, (the ship at the mercy
of dream’s many turbulent
waves) familiar sounds surrounding
you, and wish to again escape with every exhalation?
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