coming back

the odd-familiarity leaves a dull feeling
to compensate for all those years past —

coal and gravel need to stick to the soles
of my slippers, as a reminder of all that is
glued with the truths of an empty hearth.

the oil-paint peels down on my shoulders,
plaster sticks to my falling hair, reclaiming
the flesh that was shed at a time of loss,
a mark of the presence, of a pulverized hope
that everything can be whole once more.

the lights are cobwebbed in a frenzied display
of lives, lived in entanglements of an arachnid-
mesh, of raised voices, flippant arms, bruises
and burn-marks self-inflicted in the watershed
moments, to break free from the unified mold &
the intrinsic blockades of the wry social norms.

this coming is like the trace of a feline paw-mark
made, re-made on the veneer of this ménage —

the rust on the old photos, broken glass, wiped
tabletops and dust motes on the couch (that still
carry the shape of me), all fervent to clutch & grab
once more at my oft-broken, and remended heart.

© Anmol Arora

Image source (Homecoming by Kinga Ogiegło)
Wordy Thursday with Wild Woman: Homecoming at With Real Toads


11 thoughts on “coming back

  1. Oh, that oft-broken and remended heart. We all have one and it must be made of rubber to withstand its painful journey. I can feel the constriction in this place of passage, and the spirit ready to fly free. I love the feline paw-print, and the sofa that still knows the shape of you. And the hope that everything can be whole once more. Wonderful!


  2. That odd-familiarity knocks me off balance and so did your poem, Anmol, which encapsulates those dull feelings from the past. I like how you take us places where we feel the coal, gravel and plaster, and see the lights ‘cobwebbed in a frenzied display of lives’ – and that couch that still carries the shape of you!


  3. the retrun to the old home. I took my mother to our hometown a couple of years before she died. It had changed so much….we both of us vowed never to return. And then you come and resurrect the old feelings…a wonderful poem of longing and loss


  4. Ah, yes, just like being in an old deserted but little molested house. For real, I’ve been there, or metaphoric? Either way it reads good. I love the literal old house, I’ve explored several including the one I was born in. The other way I’m thinking it be a person come to hard times, male or female, perhaps living under a bridge and pan handling for meals.


  5. I don’t even know where to begin. This is so well written. Of course it helps that you’re will to completely bear your soul. All that raw hurt and exposed woundage — the healings and rebreakings. Going back despite not wanting to go back. I can understand the “go your own way” directive given musically at the end.

    I think this is my favorite phrasing: “an arachnid-mesh, of raised voices”


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