more than houses
prelude.
what is home?
how do i define it?
is it the warmth of my bed sheets,
the moments of silence before sleep?
is it the city i was born in;
bustling and cold and arrogant?
how do i define home
when i’ve called so many places the very same name?
my thoughts on home wrap me tight,
hold me close to their chest;
i think they know that they are suffocating me.
an ode to liverpool.
my heart lies at the bottom of the mersey river
and if it is alongside debris and trolleys
(sorry, shopping carts)
then so be it, lay me there too.
truth is, nobody is just from liverpool;
we are liverpool.
my heart and lungs scream as loud as anfield stadium,
every movement a buzz of our city;
i am every wave upon crosby beach
and every picture taken among it's statues
i am every slurred k and skipped consonant
i am every renovation and every museum
every ferry crossing the mersey
every plane i wish safe passage
the mantra of above us only sky
coursing through my veins
my fingertips scrape across the sky
i am this living, breathing, city
and i never walk alone.
on letting go.
"The fairest thing in nature, a flower,
still has its roots in earth and manure."
— D.H. Lawrence.
i grip my roots with both hands,
white-knuckled.
i will not let them go.
pry them from my cold dead hands.
my roots are my past.
the stem my development; the petals, myself.
"but the petals are so pretty,"
i hear, "look at the petals."
i don't listen too closely.
my iron grip remains.
i can't let go, you see.
if i do, they'll cut me halfway down the stem.
maybe, i think, maybe i'm choking this thing.
maybe i should be cradling it.
my tension doesn't differ.
i can't / don't / won't let go.