Broth

Broth boils and breathes in the
room to my left.
Plop,plop,plop do
rain drops not die but just dive,
landing on the cement outside then
they diverge but still race across my window,
before finding for confiding,
narrow places only insects and moisture can go
while from page to page, perfect
plastic crinkles as I divulge to myself (or maybe embellish)
the photo albums you’ve long since left.

Your family still laughing,coddling-
forever children always,
always with someone or something there waiting,
promise caked asleep on the living room couch.
Maybe your brother bare and soaked after emerging from
the bath tub and wetting what’s to him, ancient book shelves.
Little wreaker of havoc that’ll have it,
a still subtle adoration, but deny it.
Or your aunt’s lips active by leading hymns,
oscillating throughout the house then outdoors,
easing unease that’s secure like a trapeze
while your dad chain smokes in his wooden chair, maybe once
maybe still a
ragman.
An alien until all of you,
but a testimony to self-cultivation.

No longer am I just longing, banked between
barren states I one day plan
to cross,
relished in personal poverty on
my friend’s carpet until
the feeling’s lost.
I am now moving.
Moving now
in spite of frost.

And I am happy for you.
For what you’ve shown.
Lady choice.
Lady I’ve not known.