For My Homeland

Look at your life and trust it.
I can’t.
Why not?
What is there to trust? What is there to open to?


Trust is something which happens 
to other people, people who can stay
inside their bodies when someone
looks their way.

Welcome your spirit back from its wandering.
Why? Why should I?


The wandering is fine, I need the distraction, 
I like the distraction, I like the conversation
about something which does not actually
matter but which I can plunge my whole body
into wholeheartedly, and hold my breath inside of.


I could talk for centuries about anything, 
really anything, instead of this. If I don’t look closely
I might not even notice myself doing it.
Plenty of people do this, seriously, look around.
They are fine, aren’t they?
They move through days and shout sometimes and
probably never cry.
They are fine and life is fine to them.


This is the part of the poem where I should 
transition into talking about the opening.
The blossoming, the stepping into.
But what if I don’t want to?
I’m tired of wanting something 
which I am so afraid to ask for.
It’s like the plummet in your gut on Christmas
when the thing, the perfect thing,
you made yourself believe would come
does not, and you remember that even Christmas 
is still reality, and in reality your parents don’t have 
the extra money for the roller skates
with light up wheels you saw in the commercial, 
and even if they did, it probably wouldn’t matter.


Without want, you don’t lose. Without want, 
you floss your teeth and talk to the person 
across the table from you and don’t worry
too much about who they are. Without want
you name your kid the first name that 
comes into your mind, without another 
thought about it, the way that people used to do.


Without want, you go to war, untroubled by its motive.
Without want, you vote, for whatever lesser evil 
happens to present itself.
Without want, how can you be lonely?