last poem

poem for poetry day, new and still will be messed with, happy poetry day, a x

Suitcase to Return Home

To journey home I need a suitcase so big
it can become a small apartment. Toothbrush,
nicotine gum in a Juicy Fruit packet, wire cutters
to get me through the perimeter snip through the chain-link,
masking tape repairs the fence I’ve cobbled round myself.

The gloves are never thick enough to trick the cold,
to prevent the burrs of, the sting
of disappointment when I shake my mother’s hand.

The flashcards are in my pocket, tiny pictures of cushions,
shower, toilets, coffee, simple phrases back and forth
held in front of our lips to communicate our mundane needs.

The hard hat is self explanatory, the steel capped boots
with feather soles are mine alone, eggshell walking my speciality.

The torch, I leave in the case, homes’ searchlights blaze,
whatever goggles I use, meeting its eye is a white flash
that burns an image of my parents when they were young onto my face.
My suitcase is fit to burst, stuffed with so many things I stole

from home and now smuggle back.
Still, there are never enough dirt devils or dustpans
for everything under the carpet. Never enough batteries
or few enough, to prevent the half light cast
into corners piled high with all we don't want to see.