Poem: Coming Home
In the dark, night after night, I sat, uncomfortably, on the chair,
the bars digging into my back. The minutes could not be counted.
There were too many, perhaps thousands or millions, it was only
the absence of influence that was certain.
Deeper into the night, I closed my eyes, and invited the brightness
of the stars with the imaginary moon guiding me on the water.
The echoes of nervous tapping on the rocks, the current never strong
enough take me where I needed to go, to escape for my body to recover.
Submerged into the darkness, I stood with cracked feet, fully committed,
the chains held by rusted nails. Under the wooden slats, where the head
of my enemy began and rubbed against my ankle. The keys clinking
with other keys, belonging to someone else’s hands, not far away.
In the dark, back and forth, I rocked side to side, nothing bearing down
or making the situation different. The images were kept proportional.
Their thoughts of my being, some anxiety and fear, it was only
the lack of understanding that I would come home.
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