Kate Light


Wait—wasnít I just unpacking? Was not this
drawer, this box, this piece of luggage
an open yawn just a week ago; and was the kiss
goodbye? Can I be churning back to baggage
that which was relaxing into residential—
impinging on a ground so new—
and now Iím moving everything essential,
unhinging fledgling roots that grew?
Leaving is everywhere, or, no, is it arrival
thatís everywhere? (Back and forth I go.)
Which is love and which survival—
tell me please, so that Iíll always know.
Minutes ago I was stowing storing stacking,
it seems to be—(so time does fly);
and now Iím boxing, taping, packing.
Here is where? Out there, in me?