Rocks are notched
with sea limpets, and the pockets
limpets leave once they’ve sealed
into the rock and know
themselves most inside it,
shell swelling,
softening the stone.
You can sketch
their home-scar
with your thumb, the X
the body can’t stop
returning to, little mollusk
driven by the seas then
sealing again to the same
known. My glorious wife and I joke
about home, grooves
in the rock we land in
again and again. I am from the soothing
of PF Chang’s,
the shoe stores in the mall, the lit waves
of others exchanging money
for calm. Before that, my people
are from fear: my great-
grandfather left,
hidden in a wagon of straw. He crossed
the ocean early, just before
he couldn’t. I am from fear.
I steer
clear of harm if I can, wear an extra
sweater and don’t let
my ankles buckle. Oh beloved, I will try
to be bold. The body longs
backward and forward, backward and forward.
