Yearning Cities

Space to begin

The story of this poem: There was no money for travel when I was growing up, and I feel envious of folks who casually mention international trips with family.

YEARNING CITIES

I have not traveled. 
I have no stories to share of adventures when and where,
I have no shot glasses, no city-branded trinkets,
No stamps in my blue passport, 
No passport, in fact, at all.
A girl, contained within her walls. 
A body that didn’t grow up tall. 

I have not traveled.
I have no muscles for the time change and jet lag,
I have no compass pointing to the places that I need,
No voice of ancestors inside my ear, singing:
“Come to me, come to me,
See where your story began. 
See where we all stood before you ran.”

I have not traveled.
I have, instead, dug mineshafts down into my chest and back,
I have turned each rocky jewel with ruthless loupe before my eye,
(Finally, I softened the squint.
A body becomes wise.) 
No perfect stone to be found when the goal is acceptance.
No yearning left to blame on cities, just space to begin.