to my hometown, from the window of a plane

 

And if I could compel you
into existence, you would move
like a cloud across the sky
            (light from below
                     but heavy from
            above)
The shadow of the plane bears a scar
on your skin, and you move so slow against the roar
of the engines, as if you know
I am waiting for you to disappear, and reticent,
you pull back the days of my childhood.
 

How swiftly you once scuttled
across the sky, your white form
sliding between my fingertips like time:
            (11, 12, 13
                        growing up, growing up,
           almost grown up
                        but never
                       quite)


I am now old enough
to speak of Home as a lover, whose presence
is tender yet leaden weight.
I am young enough to have never
known anyone else, a pleasure that almost
feels like pain-
            (where did you
                       grow up?        
           did you have a happy
                       childhood?
          how to ever answer
                      a question like that?)


Then I wonder how I can put so many thoughts
into one vessel, how I can crush so many moments
            (the ones you gave
                        from your cold soft heart,
            which condense against my skin
                        until they rain, and freeze, and thunder)
into one feeling.
Yet first loves are always selfish,
and when I watch you leave
I think of only something
           like relief.


DANA DYKIEL Dana is a lover of language who also enjoys art, music, and running. She looks forward to continue exploring new places and meeting new people over the course of her life.