Mother ii. Home is like a drowned wood

On my bones I write the tales  
gifted from marshlands,  
the slip of sludge,  
the black as blood,  
the wheels that turned  
89 miles per hour  
on rough road,  
the kind of pieces that break into shards,  
and lay like zebra crossings  
one walks across late at night.  
 
Every chest  
meeting chest  
is an honest mistake,  
a lesson taught  
to enhance the essence of breathing,  
to let out the ache  
and call it back home.  
 
I whisper those secrets on Thursdays,  
the light of which pour like sparks of young love -  
and the old me and I meet  
in an ear shell where a witness entertains  
both beings  
in the quietest of ways.  
 
And in June I'll write about it,  
what it was like to know care as necessity,  
how I've blocked so much  
from my delicate, adult brain,  
childhood is an infinite thing.  
 
I go home every summer,  
drive past my old house,  
and all the memories that fall  
like dawn fog,
an echo in the shifting grey.