From Graffiti Calculus “The Phenomenology of the Name,” 3. [In the parable]

In the parable, as the father sat waiting for his prodigal boy to return
            to him, the mother surely
did not sequester herself in the tent, carving a hole in her heart.
            You were avoiding home
and so began my hunt for you, to know who you were, inhaling
            and tasting. Not just looking
but seeing. Like a cat attuned to the quick odd movement, a dog
            nosing the trail, a dancer
stepping to her partner, I was a mother vibrating through the city
            to your telling absence.
It’s not enough to say,  if only I could give my angels charge over you
            lest you dash your foot against a stone.
I had to find you. You had left your marks, first on my body, my heart,
            and now on the city itself.