Root System
Home is the place I notice when I’ve been gone a while,
that first smell when I set down luggage
before cranking up the A/C—musty couch
and sock-drawer sachet—
and that blast of color after bland hours in airports,
a celebration of the return to paintings and clutter.
I call myself a homebody
but countries with unreadable road signs
call to me on the second visit
when we bond over diesel fumes,
crusty bread and déjà vu—as if
to claim residency, all you need is longing.
In campgrounds, too, I make myself at home
with a nylon tent under my cheek and trees talking
to the wind at night and my last thought
before falling asleep Ah yes, this is where I belong.
I might declare miles of piney New England
ancestral ground then drive back south to
the embrace of humidity and fried onions,
all sense of home monogamy in disarray because
sure, there’s the yard I weed, the house I clean,
but my heart’s all over the place. First day
out west, a familiar sun-on-cactus scent
always makes me lift my face for a kiss.
.
Sarah Carleton writes poetry, edits fiction, plays the banjo, and knits obsessively in Tampa, Florida. Her poems have appeared in numerous publications, including Nimrod, Tar River Poetry, Cider Press Review, The Wild Word, Valparaiso, Crab Orchard Review, As It Ought to Be, and New Ohio Review. Sarah’s poems have received nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Her first collection, Notes from the Girl Cave, was published in 2020 by Kelsay Books.
Stone Poetry Quarterly 