Breadcrumbs

There is a place in me

where language goes to die.

Rooms without doors.

Staircases

that forget where they lead.

I leave breadcrumbs

and still get lost.

Sometimes

a hand finds its way in,

and I become smoke

before it can touch me.

I don’t know

how to be found

without disappearing.

So I gather

what the wreckage leaves behind,

small pieces of knowing

pressed into my palms,

held so tightly

they leave an imprint.

Because I have learned

how easily I forget the way.

And I am tired

of waking up

at the beginning.