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.