There are growths in us that make us breathless,
that have the smell of our home;
of fresh, floral laundry, and
hostile, white bed linen,
of polished and proud mahogany floors,
and well-loved and well-kicked, well-laughed-in-and-lived-in couches,
and bedroom doors that creak as they giggle (and whisper as they slam)
and of kitchens that are all clutter (all clatter), always hissing (always clanging).
These growths house the touch of our memories –
all soft fingers, like feathers and down
(but warm like bread and biscuits),
like water that rests in a beck until the sun goes skittering into the night.
Memories greet you, heavy, like mid-summer heat,
like mid morning august caught between the lungs.
And in the heart, the touch leaves behind
(the touch of the memory forgets to take)
that dizzying rush like stars shaken up
(like leaves in the torrent at tide)
in a sky that spins without an axis,
And the growths make us breathless,
but only when we press against them,
always when we are arriving(always when we have departed)-
the growths make us breathless no matter the distances we travel
to find a way to breathe,
to try and leave growths behind,
to try and let go of yesteryear’s aches.
And the distance has a presence that is closer than the present.
It pushes against us as the future(as the horizon)
pushes us into tomorrow and so we find our sides
(our insides) feel sharp
and feel weighted
and we call it homesick
but it’s really the way the things we leave behind still house us,
the way we house the things we leave behind.
-SARU MILLER // 15 MAY 17