Home: formerly

My heavy,
Gapped incisor teeth,
cleaving into the glassy skin of this green apple,
Instantly filled my harden veins with images of a summer five calendars ago
 
The oozy yellow coating on the under side of a June plum,
Never knew I could miss the heated brown bodies sunder the thin line between tolerance and morals. 
 
The woman, 
born in an age older than teak wooden floors,
floating just centimeters above the nails, 
dressed in rags borrowed from whatever dogged scraps lingered in the sewing room past it's distribution date, 
calls my name from the bellows of her womb as if she raised my mother's mother.
 
"Baby".
 
She says.
 
"You look lost".
 
And I didn't know whether to cry, 
or laugh or respond with some deeply poetic metaphor about the importance of being able to cry in the city you call home, 
with the people you call family,
peeling back the skin from throat to navel,
exposing the river beds of our hearts and lungs
 
Because this here,
this majestic city,
with more bullet shattered windows than paved roads, 
Cries together,
and feeds of each other's joy, 
and weakens in the knees, 
and somersaults her already butterfly filled stomach when the sun arrives on the doorsteps of her neighbor a moment too soon...
 
"How could I not feel lost here?"
 
here in the long since crystallized way hands expose secrets in other hands when they clasp, 
and words of sentiment finds ears that are not startled by their cluttered syntax,
but welcoming the rigid familiarity like rain on glass windows,
impression-less,
yet bearing a rancorous sorrow only widows know. 
 
Guide that inspired this poem: 

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