The First Thing You Should Know.

We stayed in Menemsha, the port
of the island, we grabbed bags full
of shrimp and steamers
off the boat, we ate them in the kitchen.
The salt soaked the wood of the cabinets,
the couch, gave the rented house
the smell of old blankets
left in the trunk of someone’s car.
And in Chilmark, in the night,
the trees hung thick, and we saw
nothing around us, nothing. We saw
each other’s faces, dimming, and fine.
And this is what I remember as I wake
in the morning when the radio spits static
into a room that’s still
dark, or brightened.
I have spun myself home,
knowing that this will not always be home,
not knowing where the next home will be.
That’s why the last thing I want
you to see is me,
wondering where my mother has gone,
and where it’s all slipped to, the time.