About Me

finding home

driving in Ashland, Ohio

night-soaked land and unknown roads stretched to dirt—

the tap of night rain over

radio static.

Then double barrel headlamps streaming past
two rocking chairs on a porch.

A yellow light flickering by the back door.

He probably had a shotgun behind his back watching me walk

up his driveway, a small upright dash growing

between the curtains in his window.

I probably had a gun by my chest.

I asked the shirtless old man in overalls,

“Excuse me, sir,

do you know the way to 71?”

and letting go of

wet steel

at the bottom of his cement stairs,

held for not knowing

what else to do, lost, at one end

of a dirt driveway.

I remember

pushing forward on a bike

the first time,

a thin balance struck without knowing how,

and kneeling,

because others do, before a priest

with arms raised

in a quiet holy voice singing to me but not to me—

I remember his mumbled voice and thick fingers pointing:

“You just head there— look for signs.

You’ll find a way.”