Wanderlust is a pretty way to say Run

I finished this poem and posted it on The Prose a few days ago, but it’s a culmination of an idea I picked up from an open mic night in high school. After some concerns about accidentally plagiarizing, I shelved the idea. Now, ten years later, I finally feel like I’ve taken the basic concept and made it uniquely my own. 

Although all of this was written in December ‘16, in some ways it’s a tribute to the way I wrote in high school. Back then I had a habit of leaving the identities of the speaker and their love interest intentionally vague, so the reader could make their own associations and assumptions. (Btw, if you read it I’d be very interested in hearing about those.) I did this all the time in my writing in high school, and after a while the indecision of it started annoying me — but in retrospect that was just slightly before I started questioning my sexuality, so I guess that makes sense.

Wanderlust is a pretty way to say Run

I died.
After I died, they buried me.
They buried me outside the house
where I’d lived and waited
for fifty long years
for my wandering love to return.

I died.
They buried me by the mailbox,
thinking I had liked to wait there.
Beside my grave ran the gravel path
that lead to the old house
where I’d died while my love lived on.
They buried me by the path
where, the day after,
my wandering love did return.

I died.
How little those people knew me,
thinking they knew why I waited.
Beside my grave ran the gravel path
and brought with it to the door
a world that scared my love away
from the house where I’d died —
and where, a day late,
my wandering love did return.

I died,
and my hair continued to grow
and twine and curl around my corpse.
It grew up the post of the mailbox,
then overran the path
and twined and shoved through the front door,
up the stairs and landings
where I’d paced and hoped
for my wandering love to return.

I died.
After I died and my love returned
one day too late, my hair still grew
and slipped underneath the bedroom door
of the house where I’d waited so long.
Like my love’s slow steps, foot by foot,
it grew between the gaps
after — so late, too late —
my wandering love did return.

I died,
and then I took what I wanted.
I strangled my love in the house
where I had lived and withered and died.
My hair grew and twined from the hall
to the mattress and sheets
and legs of a coward,
and smothered as I had been
my wandering love who returned.

I died.
They buried my love beside me,
beside the path to the old house
where I’d lived and waited
for fifty long years
for my wandering love to return.


If you like this poem, check out my account on TheProse.com for this and other works. I don’t have a much there right now, but I’m hoping to change that in the new year.

Advertisements

2 thoughts on “Wanderlust is a pretty way to say Run

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s