i found a home
in the piercing loudness of the train
a strange metal box that stopped for no one
and everyone all at once,
in the way my feet scurried up steps
and tapped to the rhythm of
a destination familiar yet unseen.

i found a home
in the makeshift river as thin as my veins,
a respite unexpected but welcome,
and in the beach as endless as
the new happiness that crashed towards me,
waves on a cold, lonely shore.

i found a home
in the hallway without chairs
where we all sat, a little dizzy
words flowing easily
from our lips like the spring breeze
forgetting ourselves and remembering each other.

i found a home that i
built for myself,
with small hands that had never held dirt nor brick
and, trembling with trepidation,
i gave it all my love.
it sways in the wind and rain leaks through the cracks,
but it is the first thing i have ever called mine.

i found a home and left it
and i can’t remember why
and i am deathly afraid to return
for fear i may find it sabotaged by
weeds, thick stems curling possessively around
something i thought was mine
but can no longer recognize.