I ask you where you are when
you are Home & how your arms
take shape around your own body,
how you learned to build it.
I ask you how long it took
to get your muscles on your side,
strong enough to carry the weight
of all the space you made while
trying to find your way back.
You show me all the places where it
hurt to become, opening a window in
the house you grew into. I ask you
how often you move the hurt around,
a mirror in an otherwise empty room,
always catching the light.
You tell me that lifting yourself off
the floor is how you built your strength.
That coming home means putting
your arms down at your side.
Your slightest pause means,
"I'm sorry, I am tired all the time,
I have a rock and a hill and another
day of moving the weight." You say,
"You can stay as long as you want.
But stay longer next time."