Homecoming

Homecoming

by Emily Rose Hazel

Because joy is often stuck in traffic

and is known for getting lost;

because she cuts loose

from the funeral procession

and winds up missing the burial,

but arrives at the repast

hours later, wearing a yellow sundress

under her long, black coat,

brings us a pineapple upside-down cake

and turns up the sweet remembering;

because we’re so relieved that she’s alive

none of us chide her for showing up late;

Because we hear a melody that calls us

by our home names;

Because we are wandering planets

moving through a shared space,

together in our separateness,

and we need to be surrounded

by all the ages we have been

and those we have yet to be;

Because we know nothing is certain

beyond the blurred edge of this moment;

Because on the back porch,

though sometimes the boards

leave splinters in our bare soles,

the floor is open, wide enough to spread out,

and fireflies are flashing Morse code messages

we are itching to translate with our bodies;

Because the body is more than a wheelbarrow

to carry the spirit;

Because salting our cheeks has become

a part of our mourning routine,

and it’s time

to bow at the sink, let sorrow swirl

in the drain, let our pain wash down

with what we’ve lost or spit out;

time to straighten our shoulders,

try on a lopsided smile, and walk into

a more spacious room; time to reach for

the radio, pull from the waves

whatever clarity we can

between the shades of static and ash,

and sway to the song that comes on next;

Because life cannot be choreographed

but we learn to improvise;

Because even the ankle weight of grief

can’t keep us pinned to our chairs

when the music overtakes us—

we set down our glasses, rise

to our feet, and dance.