My body
is my home,
but I shuttered it
awhile back,
and I’ve hovered nearby
like a tangled kite,
a drunken bird.
Now I look through the windows,
knock on panes, trace ledges.
My hands follow mossy walls.
I see how the roof
points to the sky,
and I want to live
in there again,
where my stuff is
and the myths are mine,
where my limbs meet
and my paths cross,
where I walk in my own footsteps.
I started to pick the lock
and push the door,
but now,
I’m just breathing,
waiting to be recognized,
to find I am
back home.

Julia Travers is a writer and artist in Virginia. She writes poetry, fiction, and news stories. Find her work with OnBeing, The Journal of Wild Culture, The Mindfulness Bell,and other publications. See more at writingsbyjt.wordpress.com.