this is not a poem about schmaltzy loneliness
but about what it means to have a mother-
to have come from some place as strange and remarkable
as another human being
and to separate from that person, from their body
and become alone-
confined to a single mind and skin skeleton machine
how it's strange to grow up
and in some home- your first house
where all your little bones turn into bigger bones
and to move away from that place
and to forever attempt to recall the details of it
-the patterns on the rugs,
the scratches on the floorboards,
the way it all smelled
(i'm right now trying to remember
2454 South Washington st-
with the red brick chimney-
down the street from Saint Joseph’s Hospital-
where the nativity scene glowed green and red every winter
as a reminder that God was a lifetime of confusion away)
how it's strange to grow-
how the mind and skin stretch
and suddenly we're older,
and still holding on to the feeling
that somewhere
happiness hides in this lifetime
in some mountain town
or occupation or hobby
or other person
like a favorite scarf from childhood that’s been buried in the closet
she will one day appear and feel familiar
and we will grow old together
on a porch
drinking tea and wearing sweaters
happiness and me
it's about the forever loneliness of being a person
universal and filled with homesickness for what exists past life on earth
...
inevitable, i guess