What was it that I wanted? I forget—
to have a place called home, these quiet hills
I look on as I write, the trees I grew
as seedlings now full-blown and full of birds,
sparrows and thrushes singing as I work;
even the snow beating against the panes—
I wanted that. And you, dear one, stopping
outside my study door, then going on . . .
that loving pause that longs but still respects
my solitude—I wanted you most of all!
I wanted a voice, oh yes, one that would tell
simply but with the mute heart’s eloquence
who I was, what my brief time on earth
was all about. And more, there was always more:
I wanted to be wanted, to belong
in school, country, gender, neighborhood—
one of the good girls everybody loves,
the heroine of the story of my life
with a happy ending. I wanted that—
who knows why anymore?—but yes, I did.
Some things I wanted but I couldn’t get
I wanted not to want—my mother’s love,
that look of urgent cherishing I’ve glimpsed
in the soft eyes of dogs and the dying.
I wanted Papi’s love unhinged from shame,
his own and mine. I wanted not to feel
that yearning for the child I never had.
What else was it I wanted? I forget.
Or could it be the longing that I want
To make me stretch beyond the lot I got?