lost and safe.

In Ithaca,
even the lake that is in the nearby fields
can moisten the dry season
of the farms right outside of town,

could make men move mountains
for the healing green of the inner hills
glistening like slices of winter melon.

and we were graceful
as graceful can be

But we left home
to move freely.

There
in Ithaca

I gathered patience,
learning to walk
without breaking
the grace of my movements
dormant as butter cups
as redundant as the farmyard hens.

But I didn’t travel far
in surviving,
learning
to quiet the demons,
the noisy mouths of men.

And there was a young woman
who lived near the lake
who made jade green jewelry
next to the house where I watched
the Aurora Borealis
and the rising tide of locusts.

only I swarmed with others
to inundate another shore.

In Cleveland,
there are many streets
where women can stride along with men.

And in this other wilderness
the possibilities,
the loneliness
the emptiness
can strangulate like jungle vines.

The meager provisions and sentiments
of once obliging to
fermented roots consisting of dominoes and firecrackers-

set up in a flimsy house
in an apartment
in a forest of another nightless city.

A giant snake rattling above and

where dough-faced landlords
slip in and out of your keyholes,
taking claims you don’t understand,
tapping into your communications systems
of laundry lines and restaurant chains.

You find you need Ithaca
your one fragile glimpse of identification-
a jade link
on your left wrist
you remember the lake
and the stars
and the bare feet
and legs to walk
and thoughts to fly
and there is a body of water.
There
at that lake-

the constant space of your
happiness.