Home is the no I thought I knew before I’d mistaken it
for water. Its darks parch strangely in my roots.
Its gray sky grieves and is an opium for grieving.

Is a lullaby. Is very soft.
Bankrupts me of my bitter mouths.
Home is the lost veins singing.

Transcript of all time happening at once.
A hex of cold in the vestibule of it.
How low I have been is what it wants.

* * *

There is no home: there is only a future
where the cellos play and men bend their fragile heads
over old emotions. The eye is a journey
where the landscape becomes soft.

Lanterns answering the cities at night:
a great nostalgia. No strange absence
of streets. No dreaming teams of horses
to speak the waltz that never stops, its small boats

tethered by the cold-blooded stars.
The lunatic villages have in the wind’s
small pocket young, electric girls.
The guards in the watchtower sleep.

Jennifer Militello

JENNIFER MILITELLO is the author, most recently, of A Camouflage of Specimens and Garments (Tupelo Press, 2016) and Body Thesaurus (Tupelo Press, 2013). New poems appear or are forthcoming in American Poetry Review, Poetry, The Nation, and Tin House. She teaches in the MFA program at New England College.

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