Home:

Home:

Home changes.
Some things are static;
my all-consuming bed,
my record player,
the train from Hillfoot.

Some things move around;
my stacks of books,
my battered shoes,
my body.

But home can be new.
Home can be the Pacific ocean,
endless humidity and the
mountains, tall and pale,
framing my life for seven months.
Home can be being underage again,
a city that never sleeps.

Home can be my love,
soothing, warm, elevating.
Home can show me parts of myself
I am often too frightened to show.

Home can be me.
Home is me.

Anna Cowan

Home:

Home changes.
Some things are static;
my all-consuming bed,
my record player,
the train from Hillfoot.

Some things move around;
my stacks of books,
my battered shoes,
my body.

But home can be new.
Home can be the Pacific ocean,
endless humidity and the
mountains, tall and pale,
framing my life for seven months.
Home can be being underage again,
a city that never sleeps.

Home can be my love,
soothing, warm, elevating.
Home can show me parts of myself
I am often too frightened to show.

Home can be me.
Home is me.

Anna Cowan