don’t forget india.

unpacking,
water stains
things i don’t remember
getting wet.

now, baths
hours
of extra skin
reading about vietnam
world war two
(an attempt at
intentionality)
wondering what
i’ll write in letters
this winter wondering
why i can’t make it home
for kirsten’s wedding if
i would have been
a bridesmaid and what spring
in california
is like this year
and storytelling-
i am making this
up my
narrative
outgrowing
your own character
sometimes
that happens
palms up, steaming
(knowing)
i am full
of something powerful.

exchanging
companions.
now, just big shy
sidewalks
without plants
stalls carts and where
are all the people
scents
and songs litter
animals-
now, it’s quiet

now, victorians
carved in pairs
with porches,
gates overflowing
rosemary

but mostly i’m cold
i don’t have the right clothes.
i am not ready for
autumn in april-
everything’s backwards
and all i have are kurtas
and two pairs
of thin socks
but there are things
returning-
like groceries
shelves an
address a laundry
basket,
keys
the most ordinary
dear things they’re
coming back

lists
and getting started
i’m a toss
in the night dreams
and twists
and aches on hold
i still can’t
really let out
holding air
waiting,

this transition
of body
and after a while
the rest,
eventually
following