by Kate Lebo
No city in the world will save your life,
But you keep hoping. On your old block
A house kneels on a corner and watches
Its thin lawn, some fences and next door's
Bamboo blinds. Last year you'd stood
On its porch and felt solid, waiting only
For a ride. You were happy.
Not exactly. You were almost home.
Inside someone watched football.
Someone cracked an egg. Someone
Sorted yard and glue and sequins
Into meticulously labeled drawers.
Do you know your body's address?
You could find that house again, right now.
One day you'll be daydreaming on a bus
And your house will burst out of its doors before you
Lit from within and dirty, like the little boyYou haven't yet birthed.