Because I am feeling like a house today—
all brackets and blueprints—you must appeal to the dog
in me; the one whose snout travels the floor
for any known scent, any signifier of home.
Over the dust that has settled into each mitered joint.
Past the oak molding sanded to a fine point.
I do not tarry for I do not doubt—I simply turn left
when turning left is called for. Because the sidewalk
that buckles at the threshold to the house
covers the roots of trees that meander under walkway
and grass, twine the pipes and reach for the light
of the backyard’s cool, you must appeal to the weed in me;
the one whose roots run deep, whose face is neither fair
nor friendly, but simply there. Because I did not know
what I did not know—I traveled
between desire and compulsion, yen and need, plan and arrival.
I did not query for I could not answer, I simply left
blank spaces along the way; an ellipse here, a dash there.
The ground, now soaked
with weeks of constant rain gave way
beneath my leathered soles. I did not stop
to think twice, the earth is the earth after-all,
taken to burdening itself with all aspects
of nature’s wild ways.
Because the dress I was forced to wear that Easter
I was three was scratchy and poufy and far too yellow
you must appeal to the child in me; the one that ran
towards my father holding the camera and yearned
to yell I hate this dress, but words of protest had not come
to me yet. No matter. That is all in the backwaters
of memory, so you must appeal to the river
in me; all bend and flow, brush and bramble, taproot and rock.