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