Transit

I feel as though
Or I may have
Slipped through another portal.

My old skin discarded
Except for the scars left behind
In the shedding

This new skin, as yet,
Uncomfortable
Ill-fitting
Unyielding

Soon, as with newly-purchased garments,
We’ll sigh
Stretch
And relax into one another,
my skin and I.

But the flavor of my soul is different now:
acrid
earthy
with a bitter tang like woodsmoke.
New Me is smoke-damaged
From the fire we barely escaped
So many things left behind
To flake and crumble into ash
To fall away.

Increasingly, my house feels like a storage space
A place holder
Filled with someone else’s stuff
Flotsam and jetsam, detritus and nostalgia.

“Where is she,” they may ask
about the girl who lived here
flowers and flaxen
sweetness and sorrow
“She’s dead,” I say. “Or dying.”
I would like to lament her
but I don’t understand her
the clues aren’t enough to piece it all together

I feel as though
She packed up the things that were important to her
Picked up her suitcase
And left.
Now she’s on a flight somewhere
Between then and uncertainty
Fingers tapping restlessly on the armrests
As the great ocean wrinkles restlessly below
In a semi-dark cabin filled with humanity

Connected with none of it.