postcard from home

the world we were in is overgrown

with the pit-pierced places in us we were afraid to give a name

and sharper lines of sight.

in it, we go foraging for selves

across the sword-swish of time in the fall of its folds,

unpeeling pasts from presents, the moth of a memory

skewered

with a toothpick to the

yolk-yellow lamplight of this childhood bedroom

where i am five years old and still cross-legged,

as if learning how to pray.