A Place called Home

Memory lunged into me,
Like a sweeping gust of west wind,
Memory of the slow scent of skin,
The liquid comfort of a once omnipresent embrace.

The beeping crowds in the square are stilled,
The commotion of day, for a brief span, stalled,
I am left suddenly void, vacated –
Ghosts of things lost have me moth-eaten.

In this consuming terror of desolation,
I wish I could hide again, cocooned,
Like the infant I once was,
In your belly, your arms…
.
.
…O Mama!

June 7, 2010.