On the Other Side of the Smokies
I am building a home inside a boy,
forged in combustible straw, sticks
that branch out and break, bricks
that fall upon a stolen cornerstone.
On the south side of Charlotte,
in an old chapel, a hole, a tar pit,
I sank into the prehistoric whispers
of ghost fathers, of forgotten sons.
On the west side of Tennessee,
I will shake the hand of the father
of the son who holds me, folds
me back into my natural shape.
On the side that is not a side,
that is my center, that is the boy
sliding rings on my fingers,
that has always been you,
we pack a go bag, stuff the mattress
you make of me inside, your home.