Strange, to come to the drenched hills
webbed with fog; the low, single-storied
houses, hidden under the trees, snubbed
between laurels and rhododendrons.
I was born here, and spent my childhood
yearning for space. For heights and vistas.
The raincloud broods, huge and dovelike, over
the nest of the city. Nothing ever hatches here.
Creatures eat the yolk and die in the shell.
My mother bought a grave for me,
a rectangle of putting green grass.
Eighty-four inches of wet soil waiting for me,
and a place beside her always. I'm not going
to come. Take what you can use: a cornea, a liver,
a kidney or two, and give the rest to the fire.
I'm never coming back. I'm going to the sky.