Coming Home

I'm often asked, "When are you
coming home?" But the person
posing the question does not
understand the meaning of the
word. Home, not the place with
the high ceilings and red carpet--
Home is the place where decades
of shoebox coffins protect former
pets. Home is the place with holes
in drywall, a bathroom sink without
plumbing. Home is a fragment, broken
off in the membrane of my childhood,
the disembodied spirit of a house
without a typical context. I open a
wound and call it home, so the
question coming from her lips,
his lips, stings the sore. "When
are you coming home?" As if home is
still a destination. As if it exists
in time without dust, still protecting
the people with cotton lives and
judgment. At least home isn't
abandoned, except by me.