first time my friends visited my hometown, two times

reclaiming or remapping, both terms
overused; bruises of old always open into new
wounds but this time are still, beautiful blue. my childhood

room and my restless mattress and all the places once attended whilst avoiding gazes seem first-
timed all of a sudden. there’s too many crosses in my parents’ house, two
floors of clothes and holy regalia, tawdry rosaries and fallalery,
collected and costumed accordingly. even my own room
retaken, (reclaimed and remapped) with a san damiano rood replica, remains a reminder of my divine
origin.

my close friends love me,
my closer friends call me
and the closest of my friends hold
countless hands, laying them
on me, an escutcheon from the heavenly core. my closest
friends hecatoncheirian, fingers long spread out like wings on my cherubs. for once
i feel cared for in a cold house
of idols.

whilst we walk in the city i notice its low
skylines make buildings
seem burning
coals in the firmament. the skies were never as great and as grandiose,
a sine wave chainstitched in luminous
cumulus. not yet november but last
days of summer – ‘tis a wonderful perk to be a
sunflower

unshackled from seasons. mining
the speaker with cackling caresses i hear childhood spaces
in high fidelity, sincere but so similar, silence
disallowed. asking with despair unsaid and uncertain,

what’ll i do without you, melody?

but one step ahead, she does the doing. instead
of diffusing, assures me
that many hands guard me like a crucifix. ripe quinces

sit on top of my wardrobe – the clarity of fragrance – a beam falling in like
a blanket, uncovering the cavern. a great
star in heaven grins hot and heraldic. the home
of my town in new playlists
familiar, in a way unrecalled and uncalled for. my parents

may care even, in their very own calvarian way. they may
never be able to hold me,
however; i’d slip through
stigmata, or choke
up on ichor. but

palms of my friends have brightening
eyes, to see me in all of my bruisedness,
exuberant,

and i never could fall through their
tight illuminant
hold. familiar,

what a word. fragrance of
quinces on the wardrobe
refusing
to rot
– and it’s still october: the trees have
barely started unbuttoning. us,

we’re just strolling,
slow and autumnal,

a family first-
timed
all of a sudden