I feel untethered, lost anchor, that giant hunk
of metal no longer attached to my ship.
Mom is downstairs in the kitchen,
talking to her mother and cooking
something—some type of meat—whose spiced
aroma is wafting up to my little nook.
Mailman rattles past, dog barks.
Sister comes in the door, metal canteen
clanging against her keys.
A holy symphony.
I float under the expanse. I sing. I fill up
another notebook. I wander through the darkness, and the
noises of my used-to-be, now-again
home. I miss the feeling of assurance
that I belonged in it. My legs are too long
for the bed; my heart outgrown
the little nest.
Too old to stay, too young to go, too afraid
to grasp the handle and walk out the front door
and down the steps.
Too little to hold the dream bursting
like moonlight from my fingertips.
O wind in my sails, O anchor,
O tiny wooden sailboat on this dark sea, take me
under thousands of stars, take me
and my soul—one tiny light in
this endless night—where you wish us to go.
Sail with us into the morning.
