I love that familiar tone poem of exhaust
from the buses in Chicago, the scent
of the enemy I know. My chosen home
in adulthood remains the city
my father called “that hellhole,” for the hurt
I’m sure he felt, as I leapt away from
what I could not maintain: the unspoken
stain of my own shame, knowing I did not
glove into the prevailing frame. A home
must be chosen and new, provide a landing
place from which to form one’s own milieu,
thus pluck away what others expect,
deflect the heresy of home.
.
Sheila E. Murphy
.