Sehnsucht

1.

I’m weeding in my dream (near the rose bush that climbs up against the pale brick wall of the house, the petals fragrantly pink) and I pull up tangled grass, long and yellow, stubborn roots — only it’s not grass but the nesting bird I’ve pulled, a span of wings like grass, stiff and warped in my astonished hands.

2.

The suspension between square feet and foreclosure notices, desiccated leaves the newly swept carpet rugs in never-used dining rooms, forlorn beauty the residue of brash glossies, the brochures which asked What Color Are Your Dreams? Months later in shades of neglect, the pattern of heartbreak, an answer blown through unhinged dreams, the windows and doors crept open.

3.

I look at all the people on these buses with those huge windows caged and exposed — and I think are we all composed of bits of glass telling a story which isn’t us, each shard of glass rancorous against the other which we blur to make a more convenient picture — people on buses, buildings and trees —

4.

My garden of Eden is in the east. A city suburb happy with dust and noise, children rolling down hills, sucking nectar from clover, yellow petals so sweet in the mouth — no gods, no devils just the angry German shepherd chained to a wooden post. After what seems like endless sunlight, Eve is the dusk that calls me home, all the other children scattering dragonflies, their wings liquid thoughts of kinematic homesickness.

(I am exiled from the idea of home.)

Originally published in Olentangy Review, Winter 2015