3.6 Villanelle (P-Town)

Posted: April 25, 2010 in Uncategorized


At twenty-two, I had this urge to roam,
something called to me in a foreign tongue,
so I drove to this city I hoped to call home.
I left behind everything I called my own.
Friends, families, jobs: all undone
when I heeded that urgent call to roam.
Three thousand miles, the throw of a stone —
it was the only way I could feel far enough flung
when I needed to quit that place I’d called home.
Now I love this city like I love my own bones,
but it doesn’t hold me when I’ve been world-stung.
It’s hard not to heed that urge to roam,
but the things I’m afraid of won’t leave me alone.
I must lose that belief to which I’ve clung,
that another town might feel more like home.
I’ve found writing — story, essay and poem —
keeps me still when my instinct’s to run,
so I face that persistent call to roam.
by writing and writing in the skin I call home.


Firing, firing, firing, but not hitting a damn thing, s.



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