Blurry because of the movement.
Becauseof the chase.
BecauseI was stealing time
incountries where I may not have belonged.
Blurry but look
atthe energy
thevibration
risingfrom skin sweat-slick
becauseI felt every season.
Isunk raw, open hands
into dishwater, and I squeezed
the sponge of every opportunity
whether offered or fought for or dangled
like a fig surprised to be falling from aBulgarian fruit tree.
The mirror sees me now. Sedate. Still.
No longer packing. Planning. Bartering.
Begging.
I am planted. Rooted. I am rioting
and so wide awake in disappointment.
But before - before. Before.
Cari never had a real home (I heard another writer say).
No way
tobe found
orhunted or caught.
I was a blur
of brown hair and big sunglasses
on a train or a bus. On my way
in or out, awash in laughter, debate,
adrenaline. As anticipated as a commercialholiday.
It was always before
whatever was coming next.