Once-
she asked
If I could ever see myself
leaving here.

“Leaving here,
or leaving home?” I asked
A smile accompanied the lie in reply:
“Well, you never leave home”.

It wasn’t lost on me-
Forty years before
She had farewelled her own mother
Chasing down a farmer’s dreams to here

Three summers ago
After the funeral
The realization:
‘After leaving home, I only ever saw my mother seven more times.’

Forty, three, seven-
What do any of these numbers mean?
Nothing at all if all has been said
But home is nothing

When there’s no one left to hold.

Ezy Reading is out every month.