I feared that if I touched one, it would scream.

HOMECOMING

I.

I watched your headlights coming up the drive

and thought, “Thank God, it’s over.” Do you know

I waited up all night for you—with only

the bugs for company? I tried to watch them

beating their wings against the windowpanes

but only saw my own face staring back,

blurry and bodiless against the black.

Mostly I passed the time remembering

what it was like to grow up in this house.

This little parlor hasn’t changed a bit

in twenty years. Those china figurines

along the mantelpiece, the ivory fan,

the green silk pillows puffed up on the couch

were sitting in exactly the same place

when I first came. And that pathetic print

of Jesus smiling by the telephone—

even the music in the piano stool.

These things should have been thrown away by now

or put up in the attic and forgotten.

But you aren’t interested in family heirlooms.

The only reason that you’re here is me.

I won’t resist. I’m ready to go back.

Tomorrow you’ll be heroes in the paper—

KILLER NABBED AT FOSTER MOTHER’S HOME.

But first look in the kitchen. No need to rush.

II.

She raised me, but she wasn’t family.

I don’t know how she first got custody,

except that no one really wanted me.

My father disappeared when I was three.

I don’t remember him. A few years later

my mother took off, too. After she left

I saw her only once—by accident—

at the State Fair one Sunday afternoon

when I was twelve. I went without permission.

I should have been attending Bible School

to find salvation over milk and cookies,

but I had sneaked away. I couldn’t stand

another dreary day of Jesus. I knew

there would be hell to pay when I got home.

Still I was happy, wandering through the booths,

drunk with the noise, the music, and the rides,

not feeling lonely anymore but merged

into the joyful crowds who didn’t care

that it was Sunday. Moving in their midst,

for once I felt I wasn’t different,

that we all shared a common world of grace

where simple daylight poured down happiness.

Then suddenly I saw her at a booth—

my mother—talking to some man, and she

was holding a stuffed animal they’d won,

chatting with it in the sort of baby talk

that lovers use. At first I wasn’t sure

if it was her. I started to call out.

She noticed then that I was watching her.

And for an instant we stood face to face.

I knew from pictures it was her. And she

paused for a moment, staring absently.

A puzzled look, a moment’s hesitation,

and then she winked at me—the intimacy

of strangers at a summer fair—and smiled

without the slightest trace of recognition.