As a child I drank the Cup of Life,

and struck a deal with—were they gods or villains?—

but I must have gulped, and gulped, and gulped

their wine, so intoxicating in its passion

and oh, so violent in its purpose.

They took me to a place so very far away

and beguiled me with images, sounds of fury

eliciting the promise of forgetting home.

I forgot my name and where I came from.

Strange, burnished eyes stared back at me from the mirror,

but nobody lived behind them anymore.

For a time, I writhed, and writhed, writhed

in this new skin, under a withering sun,

until I became accustomed to its haze and 

came to know this self as home.

I am tongue-tied on why or how or when—

can’t speak the signs that guide me where to go, 

and the constellations don’t shine in their meek splendour anymore.

Galactic giants breathe instead

a burnished flame upon these weary eyes.

One earth, of countless others in a universe

where so much space is breathless darkness.

Once upon a recent dream, 

a question on a yellowing banner lay hold on me, held me still

on a busy street.

All the people passing by, beguiled with images, sounds of fury—

the sign was there for all of us, yet only I, in stopping, saw—

The big black letters on torn fabric, too long under the scorching sun:

CAN WE EVER FIND OUR WAY BACK HOME?

I awoke in tears.