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The Prodigal Returns

Ikera Olandesca

They said I have no reason to worry. That I can find
A home within myself. But what if my mind is a home
I don’t want to live in? They said I should return, stay
Here for one month. Three months. Thirteen. I have
Not tended to this house. When I swung the door open, faced
Myself for the first time, the frame broke. Sins spilled
Sawdust from the ceilings, blinding, suffocating. Outside,
My father asked me what was wrong. I could not breathe,
Much less explain why. When I stepped onto the floorboards,
Rotting timber crumbled, collapsed. I plunged face-
First into colonies of questions thudding my eardrums, eating
Through my head like termites. How
Did it come to this? If it is not my fault,
Why must I still endure it? Sleet shot
Through fractured windows. I looked for quilts to keep warm—
I saw only straitjackets of promises I could not keep
To myself. I looked for a bed, a couch, a carpet—there was
Nothing. I had pawned off parts of me on strangers
Disbelieving they were scavengers squattering
In the fissures of my body, a street comforting to them
But foreign to me. The best thing about being
Outside with a group of people was ignoring
The weight of my own cracked skin, chameleoning
To classrooms, crowded malls, karaoke bars. Solacing,
To fasten my dead ends to their dusty pavements, to fire up
The lampposts, to laugh, to scream, to turn all the traffic
Lights green. When there were people constantly crossing
My path, I could not see all the damaged roads that needed
Fixing. Screeching tires and blaring horns turned
Crashes into quiet whispers. But now that the street is empty,
I can no longer ignore the sirens, the stop signs, the speed
Limits. My mind calls to me. I trudge back, mourning
Time and soundness lost on trying
To make a home out of mere visitors.

 

This poem was first published on The Wilderness House Literary Review.

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