Home is
a hurt place;
the cut umbilical cord;
the roaring in the ears
and
the solitude;
what a person becomes
when
they build something
inside of
themselves;
crying;
thirty miles away
of a thousand miles
plus the moon;
crossing the train tracks
not knowing that there was such a thing
as crossing the train tracks
before
you crossed them;
a swing set
swinging
forever;
9/11
and Ma's
in the living room
bawling
while
Grandma
holds her
knowing
that those two towers
meant something,
more
than
just two pillars
and travelling back with Ma
as she weaves her way
with a tissue
and blotted eyes
to the day
her brother
and father
went to the top
of the trade centers
and stradled the railing
almost flying;
grandad
having a heart attack
because of his daily morning
tonic:
two eggs,
lemon juice
and a cigarette,
before
the umbilical cord
was cut;
Uncle
not being around,
disappearing
right after
Grandad
died;
dad
beating the **** out of
Ma
one night;
is Ma,
Joci,
Grandma
and Me;
getting your *** kicked
by Gary
and Ma
sending you back out
to get some more;
fear
and biting nails;
distant;
thirty miles
away of a thousand miles
plus the moon;
a distance;
being so hot with blood
in an all-white classroom,
while somebody asks you:
"Have you ever been shot?";
isolation;

Home is
hatred,
a slow growing,
well-tuned,
well-constructed
reinforced
aluminum bat
that dings
the ribs.

Home is the sound
of hollowness,
the ability to ding.

Home is a distance.
Home is further.
Home is the hurt place
inside the ribs.