ride home 

no one has a ride home or a ride at all
& so we set up camp beneath
the chin of the ragged field.
my father is turning ten years old again
& he's eating caterpillars from
the sidewalk. i come to join him.
it try to hide the fact that i didn't
get him a present. no one ever knows
what to get their father. 
we don't have a dust pan anymore
& so i use my hands to sort the dirt
from the gold. there is no gold.
a flock of crows comes to visit 
& says, "we don't recognize you."
we admit that we don't recognize us either.
living through times like these feels like
putting your face in the washing machine
over & over until it is threadbare.
i taste soap on our dishes sometimes 
but it really doesn't bother me. i have
stuff to clean inside too. in the sacristy 
at the old church i am told all the water
goes into the earth. witchcraft is 
the only truth at the end of the day.
the crows adopt a few of us & the rest of us
well we don't get to go home. home changes
until it is no longer a place you can arrive.
when people ask "where are you from?"
i could give you lists. i lived here & there.
my people rooted & fled & followed 
blood & fell & managed to forget almost
everything except for the names of streets. 
when we get a ride i think i want to 
reach a gas station. buy some ice cream
& let the sun turn me into syrup. 
i'm going to escape being holy & go
right onward to being a disco ball.
beneath all this meat is light. i am sure 
of it. the ghost between the ghosts. 
crows bring doorbells. 
we spend all night ringing.