Home as carnivore, as a thing that hungers, home as raptor, as sky full of teeth, snagged on feathers. Home as ravenous beast, as night, as mountain: alpine woodlands frost-licked and glittering. Home as black expanse, as river: burning. Home as skeleton, as body caught on fire, as acacia tree branches holding up the skin. Home as field of thorns, as a thing that does not want you, as a body that is not yours, as a graveyard for all things remembered. Home as eclipse, as bodies blackened, as sun smitten out of the sky, home as mythos, as origin, as blood. Home as savagery, as heart in lover’s mouth, as ritual sacrifice, as tradition, as tenderness.
Home as desire, as your darkest wish, as memory, as catacomb studded in lunar regolith, home as far gone thing, ancient, a reliquary for your fossilized longings.
Home as ewe: wool shorn and trembling. Home as plough in field, as farmer, back bone bent thrice. Home as seed, as sprout, as prayer for harvest in broken English. Home as spore scattered across four winds, forlorn and delicate as first frost. Home as errant bird; frostbitten, reverse migrant plummeting out of the sky. Home as heartbeat, pulse wild beneath the skin. Home as dream, as first footstep in a strange land. Home as sharpened teeth, as the courage to leave everything you have ever known. Home as nomad wandering across continents, too far from home to remember the color of the sky. Home as the ritual kindness of a stranger. Home as an unknown future, home as destiny, as prophecy.
Shompole is an author & writer of many collections of poetry. She is also an artist and photographer who sometimes shows her works in galleries and other fancy places.
Home, a poem is featured in forthcoming Wayfarer Triptych Book 1: Motherland: An Exploration