Where My Home Is
Petted by emerald drops of the sea with a lime taste;
I am whispering through the tunnels of broken and left alone seashells, which shelter my handcuffed life hopes and plans,
I am recalling:
I am her hungry and exuberant body, her lone brood, her audacious hair and her vibrant roots.
Now stuck and forgotten, imprisoned by destiny decisions and doubts.
My fears roar and roam reluctantly in the wild inside my earthy nipples, echoing deep down into my liver.
There are some moments that do not bewilder me anymore as before.
I try to sense the woman I’ve been,
I try to holler her name in the mist.
I know that she’s still meandering under my new dry skin and Mexican sizzling sun.
Mayhap, she was seized by the coal feathers of a murky raven, who pecked out her joy and then dispelled above the careless azure Caribbean sheets?!
Does, then, my deceiving four-chambered heart, trampled by innumerate caravans of my and other people’s itineraries, still remember how to find the way back to her?
For I’ve been asking a lot where she is and where my home is.
“Your home is, — the pumping red devil replies, — You.
But you are looking for silky carpets, mysterious vines on walls, lush chairs, and scattered peaches, oozing orchids and singing orchards, honest honey caresses, and shameless kisses, welcoming soft beds and generous guests.
So much you demand from it.
That you don’t see it, nor do you feel it.”
