Wandering Back

eating wild onions and the potatoes 

you stole – it’s midnight in the kitchen,

the rest of the world a wheeling 

star. some memories have no 

marrow but this one? this one i want to

crack between my teeth, consume its

darkness before its darkness consumes

me. everything those days was like an 

erotic disease, a cloying rottenness

i had no desire to wash from my skin. no

wound is beautiful but oh, you could have

convinced me otherwise. my heart gaping, 

not quite bleeding, irradiated as if microwaved. 

when i lick this memory clean there will

truly be just bones and a light in a faraway

half-finished home winking out as if i

never wandered back.