Independence

Today filled me up
like a full river
lying in a cup that's too small

Tonight is a hollow boat
on a trickling stream
far from the sea

Too much
Not enough

-

Some nights the tattoo on my back tingles and burns - it wants to tear itself off the skin with longing for a horizon line. Here in my room in my house in my housing estate with the view of the neighbours opposite, and the apartments beyond that, and the telephone towers beyond that, and the dirty night beyond that, and the stars that hang in it, winking and teasing. Love is in the rooms, sleeping in the beds, cooking in the kitchen. But the sea and the stars, the moon, the great big world calling: books are not enough, love is not enough. Home is not enough. Home is my warm stomach, my dying pet, waking up in the morning to find yourself planted with the roots of a tree - demanding love, trust, time, effort. Home is too much.

I feel like a box with a curse inside it, and a picture of a ship drawn on the lid like a magic seal. I look at it looking out at the world - both cure and disease.

I wonder about my mysterious grandmother. Maybe it's her living inside me.