Blurry because of the movement.
           Because of the chase.
           Because I was stealing time
           in countries where I may not have belonged.

‍

Blurry but look
           at the energy
           the vibration
           rising from skin sweat-slick
           because I felt every season.
           I sunk 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 a Bulgarian 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
            to be found
            or hunted 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 commercial holiday.
It was always before
whatever was coming next.

‍