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.