it was only then, city-shawled and freshly guarded,
immune to potholes and puddles,
that I remembered
the cows
on the path off thunder hill,
how they
followed us through a grove and a gate
and we videoed their
loping footfalls, the quiet sounds they made,
how the meadow glowed
pale and pink
and I wanted to take a bite
of the whole world.
in exile my old willow tree surges, roots
tide pools in both palms.
I draw a sigil for each direction,
forget sentences
as I start them.
appalachia lives beyond our boundaries,
our barriers.
we are a life force, an energy signature,
a way of linking.
we are a tunnel of interlocked hands.
we are a thousand ghosts, remembering each other.
on the subway, the mountain in my spine
straightens.
and whatever cage I’m pulled toward, I know
my mountains will hold me taut,
stabilizing me into the
now,
right now.
how to explain that in leaving,
I was protecting—that I, too,
am the land I’m sworn to keep safe.
theatlantic.com