Terminal in the best sense

There’s something in the air
Or perhaps it’s in the water
Or perhaps it’s in the pale and
Trembling heart that I have torn
From my chest to plant
In the black soil before
Our house where the windows
Stare at us as if we were
Welcome but not here
Not now and not like this
Planting our hearts as deep as
Spoons and forks and knifes
Made clean by the earth
Opening its arms to us
Telling us we are the lost
Pieces it was waiting for
No matter what our house says no
Matter what the neighbours say
Behind our backs or to our
Faces turned toward the place
Where we buried our hearts
Happy that this would be
Terminal in the best sense
Somewhere to stop traveling stop
Running from the spirits that
Haunt our homeland No not our
Homeland just the land we left
To find soil not soaked
In blood and salt from below
That we might tear our hearts
Through slabs and spokes of bone
As if we were on stage asking
As if we were on our knees
Wearing bracelets of black soil
Making this land fertile not
Making this land ours but
Making ourselves this land.

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