NPM 10/30: I only return by accident
I only return by accident
I haven’t been home in 14 months.
My mother calls, and shrugs, and then
goes back to work. Last time I saw her
it was more going than returning;
I was shocked at my old room,
the boulders in the park, the menus
at the bars and everything that hadn’t
changed a bit. This year, so far, new city,
two old apartments one after the other—
you could fit one easily into the last,
as if success were just a matter
of assembling Russian dolls.
Over New Years I was in the Himalayas,
in June I’m going to America, August to France.
In November I’ll set out to sea again.
I go and go and now forgot how to return.
I know that other people do it.
Yesterday I saw two schoolyard friends,
one in the morning when I flew down to the Negev,
one in the evening after I flew to the coast.
(Can’t even fly back to the same airport
I left from.) Both buddies were from Michigan.
One had immigrated here, like me,
and one had lost his wallet and was trying
to entreat tourist police without raising his arms
or voice. In uniform, I shook his deadweight hand,
and he asked if I was serving, which was a very
stupid or a very brilliant question.
I have forgotten how to go about returning.
When I go up to the beach I always walk home
by a different route. If I turn back I tend to get lost.
Yesterday I saw two friends like boyhood landmarks
shipped here from across the sea
of adolescence. I’ve never returned there
but somebody keeps sending scouts to find me
on the other shore.
