Day Three/Poetry Month/Theme: Going Places

BORN LUCKY

An old boyfriend once called me the “Queen of Leaving”

and he was undoubtedly right, because

I left him constantly, leaving broken furniture

in my wake, only to return a few months later.

We had drunken sex and fought again

a few hours later, often furiously

and about causes neither of us understood,

until the pressure was so bad that I left again.

Everything was more difficult

when I stayed in the same place,

grievances piled in corners like abandoned trash,

then torn into shreds by scavengers.

It was home to me, and comfortable

because someone was always making for the door

knowing that the other side held images

that, if not better, at least were different.

The trick is learning to stay,

and releasing the need for escape.

The irony is that this only happens

when I have less interest in movement,

and even the act of crossing the room

appears unnecessary--

something I only do through force of habit.

Sitting quietly is an act of trust,

and I can afford to do it,

but even this admission is terrifying.

It's the same weird luck I experienced

during a sudden thunderstorm in Chicago

when I was a tiny child, returning from the zoo

with my mother, and I was frightened

by the hailstones and the lightning

and she said, “the lightning won't strike you”

with such absolute certainty that it stopped me

and I asked, “how do you know?”

and she replied, “because you were born lucky”

and I knew I didn't have to escape from anything.