A Place to Call Home by Kylan Tatum

I.

tonight, i sat on the porch to watch, to listen. 

to watch those walk by listen

to unheard melodies in the stars. 

i tried to glean their notes 

through the twinkle of an eye, 

the quiver of a lip. 

it didn’t work of course 

(it never does) 

but I sang along anyway, 

like a deaf cellist tickling the ivories with a bow.

II.

at night, i like to deconstruct myself 

into fragments like those littered 

throughout the sky. 

first the clothes to leave me naked 

in the moon’s soft gaze. then 

the skin to remove its touch. 

III.

mother says the glitter of my eyes

has always been as distant

as the sparkling stars i yearned to call home. 

as a child, i roamed vast green fields,

crescent moon plastered to my face,

sprinkling weeds like stardust in the rushing wind. 

IV. 

it’s a strange thing to call a place home. 

home is where the heart is. 

(when your heart’s in your throat 

home’s right beside it to choke you) 

someday, you’ll come to know 

that having home within your grasp 

demands a heart between your hands.

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