Everyone knows you can't go home again. But we do. For most, there may be a little sadness mixed in with those memories. Others deal with it as best they can. But in the end, maybe the advice in the last line of this poem is the best.
I moved to Albuquerque a year ago from Michigan. I've spent the last year getting settled, writing, and learning the difference between growing vegetables in Ann Arbor and the southeast side of Albuquerque. I'll have a poem in Adobe Walls this year; my other publication credits are many years ago and best forgotten.
talking fears such fear
I drove my mother and her foul dog
500 miles from Michigan to Chuckey goddamn Tennessee
picked up a pistol a rifle first time in 10 years
bullseyed every shot
every trigger stroke cracked
bedrock nothing left but
to make the sound again
above Chuckey I hiked
my brother’s mountain ridge
at the top I rested
by farmhouse walls twisted down
talking terrorists at Michael’s kitchen table talking
Hiker Pro water filtering systems
catastrophic food storage
I’d drill that well Michael dig latrines
when we can’t flush away our shit
we’ll leave the darkened cities and show up at your door
drove down the russet mountain gunpowder on my hands
in the Charlotte airport downing bourbon
coffee chocolate cake
I do not know how to stop
apologizing forgetting walking away saving
myself not soon enough for giving
away my gun this is not a metaphor this
is a gun Jessey I’m descending
into the cochlea deep cella
feeling for sound Jessey says,
Try to forget life before those fibers broke. The low notes that resound.
Poetry submissions are welcome. Email firstname.lastname@example.org.