the definition of home is

a.

for every door unhinged, there is a tally along the wall.

mine, then jake’s, then mom’s, then john’s, then jake’s again,
& again, then, so far above i can hardly see it, even on my tip-toes,

there’s dixon’s. dixon’s in prison now, has a kid. john’s in prison now,
almost had a kid but didn’t. they’re in different prisons but i still remember

the backseat, john in the passenger, who knows who was driving,
my tongue blue & the world red, rushing, my cheeks flushing with memory

of the childhood crush i had on the friend who slept on the couch when i didn’t,
all the while a recording, the reminder of a recording, of the help that is offered

but will not come, & then the offer, the numeric response, & dixon’s voice
through static for the first time in years. what is home if not that feeling?

if not that 7-11 stop for candy to make the ache in my jaw disappear?
if not bottles of water & the laughter causing spill & now,

how many years later, i have not heard dixon’s voice since.
i missed my brother’s call to write this, though no doubt

he had answers to the questions i’d asked about the children
i’ve never met. i’m meant to write a poem for a father

i’ve never met, will likely never speak to. & what is home
if not a child growing in absence of a father behind bars?

& what is a father if not a cage? to those children i will never meet,
it is the desire for words to capture all that is felt. for dixon’s child

who i will never meet, it is visits in their mother’s arms, it is likely
photos against that scrapbook wall, letters & jpays & monitored

phonecalls just like mine. for my brother it is a phonecall against prison regulation,
muted while dialing then unmuted & our mother on the other end, listening in.

it is a letter i read that was not meant for me. it was the jealousy curling
through my chest. for me, a father is six years of blessed absence & a looming death.

for me, a father is the break in my partner’s voice when he speaks of his children
& the knowledge that they will always come before me & that is as it is meant to be.

yes, i am selfish. yes, i want more. yes, i love him more because he loves them more
& still a part of me wants to be loved best. yes, i will always be a selfish child

with open hands reaching for a love i have not learned how to reach.

b.

home is that feeling of reaching & it is that feeling of an empty bed cradling me
each night. it is also exhaustion after six hour zooms & eight hour calls & the comfort

of the catch before your name when you send me to voicemail. home has never been a place,
it will never be anything more than a feeling, & what more could i ask for? or let myself

take? i will always want more & more & yes, sometimes i will even receive it

& yes, i will still want more, i will want everything in perpetuity, i will want the continuation
of a feeling, i will want a belonging i do not yet know how to accept & yes, that yet means

eventually i will learn & yes, yes, even then i will want more.

c.

what is a house but four walls. four? i meant ten
& a half. what is a halfwall but room for the sun.

what is the sun but something i gave myself as a reason to live.

what is a reason to live but home. what is home if not the body
that carries me. what is the body if not a burden: a gift, a miracle,

a vessel, nauseating, something to be changed, shaped, transitioned,
something to be crafted like wet clay in loving hands. yes, the world

is everything we have words for & everything we don’t.
did i say the world? i meant life, i meant love, i meant joy,

i meant belonging. so too i meant displacement, i meant loneliness,
i meant the lack that carves you out, leaves you hollow. when i said

you i meant me, of course. i meant us. i meant the us we will never
be. i mean the us we have always been. i mean the messy inbetween

which is all that’s real. i don’t know what i mean, can you tell me?

i mean i don’t know what’s real, can you show me? i mean i’ve never
known what i mean, that’s why i write, to figure it out. do you know,

have i figured it out yet? can i stop now?

d.

i know how to build walls, my hands helped shaped the cage i once lived in,
beams that were never filled in, drywall mixed but not poured, a floorplan

that never came to be. i’m trying to say i could help if you let me but i know
you’ll never let me. i’m trying to say i could be of use, have real worth,

make something of myself worth seeing. i know i’m worth seeing,
you don’t have to tell me but please do tell me. my sense of self is inflated

& devastated, please, help me stoke the flames. i mean please,
don’t let my fire go out. i mean don’t let the smoke cloud your eyes.

i mean don’t look at my hands, look at my mouth. don’t listen
to my words, hear what i’m saying. don’t hold my breath,

hold my body. are you following?
i’ve never been able to keep pace

with myself, i’ve never asked anyone else to even try.
i want only what i won’t ask for. i want only what i beg for.

i want to watch your lips shape my truth. i want to hear your tongue craft my heart.
when i tell you i belong, i mean for you to mean it. when you tell me i belong

i don’t believe you. i believe only what i can’t hear. talk to me while i’m sleeping.
tell me your truth when i’m lost in the sound of your voice, the catch in your breath,

the unrelenting thump of your heart. tell me again &
then again, i belong, i belong. make me believe it.

the beginning of the end starts again

what matters most at the end:
…………………………………..a conclusion, an answer, the truth
………………………………………………………………………the appearance of closure
…………………………………………………………………………………….though it is impossible to truly close anything.
………………………………………………………….you close a door and there is still a gap between the door
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….and the frame.
…………………………………..you close a door and there is still room for light to shine through the gap.
…………………………………………………………..you close a door but you do not cover the peephole.
………………………………………………………………………………………………you close a door but you do not lock it.
……………………you close a door but it can always open. you close a door but there is always
……………………………………………………………………………………………………..the other side of the door.

you close the door and lean against it. you close the door and whisper
……………………………………………………………………………………………..what it is you cannot say.
………….you close the door and hope they are leaning against the other side straining
……………………..to hear what it is you cannot say. you close the door
………….and they are on the other side of the door and they cannot hear you
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………but they know you are there.
they are leaning against the door and you are leaning against the door and the only thing between you
………………………………….is a slab of wood.
……………………………………………..you close a door but you do not walk away.

…………..you pace the two feet between your door and the wall.
………………………………………………………………………………….you watch the handle.
………………………………………………………………………………………………you hope to see it twist.
you close the door but you do not lock it. you close the door
………….but you hope they pry it open. you close the door but you see the light
………………………………………………………………………………………………………..shining from the other side.
………….you close the door but you do not know why you closed the door
…………………….when you want it open. you close the door and you lean against it
………………………………………………………………………………………….and you wait for it to open,

though you make no move to open it.
………….you close your eyes but it doesn’t work.
……………………..you open your eyes and it doesn’t work.

the door is closed and you go to bed pretending nothing happened.
……………you wake up and the door is closed and you go about your day as if it has never been opened.
……………………….the door is closed and you crawl through the window to get out
…………………………………….and the whole time you are hoping they are there on the other side
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….waiting to come in
……………………………………………………………………………………….but you make all efforts to avoid looking.

you come home at night and the whole world is dark
………………………and you could go to the door but you don’t.
…………..you could open the door but you don’t.
………………………………….you could see if they are waiting there                (and they are waiting there)
but you don’t, you circle around back and you squeeze your body through the window
……………………………………………………………………………….and you fall in a heap on the floor.
……………………………………………………………………..you lay in a heap on the floor and your body aches
…………………………………………………….and your bruises ache and the door was right there
………………………………………………………………………………………….but you climbed through the window
…………………………………………..and you could get up off the floor but you stay in a heap on the floor
and you ache. and you ache. and you ache.
………………………and you wish for the door to open but you do not open the door.
you try to smile and you choke instead.
………….you search for a beginning and you only find an end.
……………………………………………………………………………………………..you pick yourself up off the floor.
………………………………….your body aches and your bruises ache and
…………………………………………….you belong on the floor
……………………but you get off the floor.
you try to walk but your body stills.
…………..you try to speak but your mouth stills.
……………………………………………..you try to ask but your questions tumble over each other into nothing.
………………………………………………………..you hold onto all of your nothing until it becomes something
………………………………………………………………………………………………………..and then you go to the door

____

BEE LB is an array of letters, bound to impulse; a writer creating delicate connections. they have called any number of places home; currently, a single yellow wall in Michigan. they have been published in FOLIO, Figure 1, The Offing, and Harpur Palate, among others.