My hands are small corners
When I place them against my plastered
wall, I feel coldness. Then, I trace my fingers
across the wall’s face. I form islands with
my palms faced down and dream of a land I used
to know. As if by force, I begin to run to the end
of the room. My body divides empty spaces.
I am motion, forgetting yesterday by movement.
But, there is another wall, and I collapse
when I reach it. I bend my knees. I sigh, exhale.
The stillness has become a burden. I replace my hands
on the wall and feel the same coldness. This is how
I know I am no longer home.