The Maynard
Spring 2014

Ballast in Bone

Home is a heartbeat burst,
a breaking of babka in two,

a crack under your shoe
that seismographs a line

to the old horizon that rises
into mountains and holiday

skies ossified in cloud.
From a boat we plunged into

an ocean of water-logged dogs.
Home wends in a held breath

through a tracing reminiscent
of Photoshop where one must

isolate a face with
a semi-invisible lasso,

a tool that looks like an ocular
migraine. Home is that headache

swishing under your skull as
you feel for the fracture between

living and leaving, even while
you make a calendar of collages

for Christmas with all the dates
you’ve hugged each other
in a long-held game of not letting go.