A poem is a gesture toward home.
It makes dark demands I call my own.

               Memory makes demands darker than my own:
               My last love drove a burgundy car.

My first love drove a burgundy car.
He was fast and awful, tall as my father.

              Steadfast and awful, my tall father
              Hit hard as a hailstorm. He’d leave marks.

Light rain hits easy but leaves its own mark
Like the sound of a mother weeping again.

              Like the sound of my mother weeping again,
              No sound beating ends where it began.

None of the beaten end up how we began.
A poem is a gesture toward home.