If I were to be put on a chopping block and cut in half,
I cannot say if I’d want both sides buried together.
Home is something that happens to other people.
I, instead, return to a bed and walls and people
Who still don’t know where the toolbox is.
I know we used to keep it in the basement,
but we don’t have a basement anymore.
I trace the map lines that took me to school.
My mother always reminded me about Murphy’s Law on the way.
On the way I saw a dead man, bloated, guts spilling.
I saw a bright purple house with a bright green door.
Or a green house with a purple door?
Was the man even dead?
Did we have a basement? Was it above ground?
But I know where we keep the toolbox now.
It’s been in the same place for the last eleven years,
But because it is in the newest place I put it, it’s still novel.
Just like the humidity, and the noise, and the constant miscommunication,
And the ceiling fans, and the city life, and the missing something I can’t remember, and—
I’ve made up my mind.
I want my head to be buried in the snow and
I want my body to be burned.