Unpacked

The red car stayed red until I was 30. I moved away
too late in search of flaming hills,
carried your words
like a satchel on a long journey,
hooked myself on the hot invisible, danced
with salt and brightness,
lonely underneath,
tasted adventure’s grease and color,
the wicked span of globe.
Unpacking was never easy.
Something always left behind
until the part that looks like you was all I had left.

Once a tepid girl in a corner, a mass of tangled
hair and thoughts —
you knew me then. The world was bound
in shelves around our house. Sun glimmered slowly,
yellow as dried nettles
— and I grew,
moldy and without promise.