Reinvention is an exile poem, a thought on identity, home, and life choices.
Reinvention – Exile Poem
My sister says, no one draws a self-portrait, my friend says, her ex re-invented himself after the affair and I see trees dressing up in spring as if they were never naked. And you, you speak blue today and red tomorrow, and I, I'm a caterpillar's still munching leaves ten years on, the space is getting crammed like the tin of sardines floating towards Dover, further and further away from Mother's jam. Is home in the pit of my stomach or can only Mother's jam tell me who I am? I see birds nesting and old men chewing the flesh and dried leaves I see you slipping corns into woollen socks. The women keep weaving buds and petals into the dusk dust rising from their bones and the girl wants it too but midday might steel her away like the magpie who stole my noose. When fingers tighten around your neck, you migrate, I told my sister, talked to my friend about a TV documentary on sparrows.