Perfect Seven

To America,

Home Originality  

Seven years ago today

I arrived at your shore

for the very first time.

On that day, seven years ago,

you took me in, unconditionally:

with my pubertal swings,

that terribly broken accent,

my fears and doubts and all my angst,

and so much perfect ignorance.

Oh America, way back then,

I was so lonely, so homeless,

and you were home to so many, even homeness,

but I didn’t know that yet.

And so, so beautifully you took me in,

into your arms,

and let me dream it all, say it all, be it all;

that’s how I, too, landed among the stars.

Today, all those years later,

I realize that seven times

I came home to you,

with all I had and all I had not yet quite become but would so soon,

which you always already knew.

Oh yes, every time,

I came home, felt home, stayed home just a little more

until I called you ‘home’ to others, too.

Oh how it hurt sometimes,

because that’s what you do, always do,

when other places try so hard, too; or at least your people do,

which I’m not sure my people do or know how to, no.

And now I will return to you

no more.

This time, beloved,

the stardust will have to do,

will have to,

until we meet again.

Oh you, beloved,

I look at you in awe

from afar, too far,

from another shore.

Oh, oh no, dreams were never made of sand,

even if sand’s just as plentiful

as your stars, the many;

dreams, my many, never started with me,

and neither did the stars’ light.

And so today,

I twirl in your stardust all alone

and am infatuated with you more than ever before.

I don’t quite know what happens on my eighth:

if I’ll be Home, eventually, and if it’ll be you.

Because way back then, on The Eighth,

did God ever get to come home,

to the place he called paradise?