grossly sincere

The earth that greeted you upon birth,
Nestled between the rocks and waves
with songbirds and insects sounding off through the morning and night,
while roadkill swells and festers beneath your tires--
across the interstate, day by day, born just before noon--
Out of body, in a body, bound by flesh and blood:
Where should I return to?

Running home, backpack jangling, sneakers bouncing off the sidewalk:
The children disperse, returning to parents and pets,
A home, full of memories and laughter and love:
It’s time for dinner, they set the table—
Matching glassware, linen tablecloths, decorative placemats:
Togetherness coordinated by the mundane.

My mother, after years of absence, returned home in June.
Her native land bowed before her, the warmth of the sun cradling her face,
tangled telephone wire, God,
the noise of jeepneys rushing through the street,
strolling along the polished floors of landmark mega malls.
Batchmates anticipating her homecoming:
This is her home.

And my father, he finds home in the familiar,
in the warmth of others:
Brothers and sisters under one roof atop a hill
Passionate songs of love in their native tongue,
The bark of Tagalog sounding through the house
A loyal family found their corner of Maryland,
gathering blood close.

But me, me again, lost and forlorn,
Where is home?

A hoard of pill bottles,
the rotting cereal bowl,
clothing spilling ‘cross leather,
the half-made bed
and the pile of plush—
dust bunny dwelling down deep,
remnant rags hidden away.
Discarded belongings find their place in the dark,
and I, where am I to sleep?

It’s the low ceilings and the short door,
the lack of flow, the misuse of space
nothing ever in its right place.
It's washing dishes under the dim light,
dwelling in a dark cave with centipedes and crickets,
bundled up as the sun goes down.

Or was it the red room,
with paper scattered across the wall,
with the metal bed frame adorned with flowers?
Is it the first taste of something new, of endless potential,
with dreams sketched in the dark,
splayed across the floor with forgotten treasures?

Could it have been the evergreen behind the fence,
moss and rotting leaves below my feet,
watering the roses after school, alone?
Was that home?

Could it ever really be home,
with no ties to anything at all,
no foundation to cling to in a harsh gale,
wandering the state year after year
temporary and tenuous?

Be the road that guides me:
the familiar turn into the neighborhood,
the hill to glide down as the sun sets,
the crabapple tree standing in the yard,
the tiny balcony with cars zooming beneath—
be a landmark, something to look for in the blinding darkness
and take me there—
take me home.