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This appears in a pre-2010 issue
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Home
Andrew H. Oerke
Ot is both repulsive and attractive
to be going back to where we come from.
It’s as if a revolving matentism
that swings as away and then swings us back
dialed the needle of our compassing
so that it circled round to where it began.
We throw the first half of our lives away
and the last half boomerangs us homeward.
We have returned as if we have a choice.
since eventually we all go home again
to dream of the hearth and the hollyhock lake
with pauses for wild blackberries, and the wind
in the weeds whispers. We seal jam with wax here,
we pound and dust the dough in our palms,
and the past is the house we can’t get out of
no matter how hard we pick at the lock.
No matter where the elephant may lie,
he struggles up, sways like an abandoned barn
about to blow over, but clomps his cornerstones
back to his birthplace as the preferred location
in which to take a last look around
and see what it took him a lifetime to say, “I am home.”