Rabbit-holes that would trip you up
In one faltered outpour of breath
Wait for me in the woods.
Kits slink in the earth below,
My mountainous footsteps rumbling
The little ones who sit up in fear.

But I am no threat: my rubber boots barely break the soil,
Graze nettles tenderly. I step
To avoid being heard.

Many heatless Augusts have passed since I was here last.
Cornstalks wrapped around my ankles,
Cut into the oysters below the bone.
Then I knew no escape,
Had all the isolation of a lifetime packed into a childhood:
To be home was to be alone.

Now I know better; plan my escape routes early,
No need to edge into the hole of a childhood home.
Instead I blink up at the sky, eyes as emptily sightless as the stars.

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