I do still get that strange thoracic ache
of childhood, which I used to call “homesick”
in order to make sense of the sudden lump in my throat and
the furtive thought YOU’RE NOT ALRIGHT!
At 28, I am still unclear why these pangs plague me,
catching me especially
as I drive through Granite weekday mornings
while I curse the clocks forever ticking forward, forward
when I haven’t yet figured out age 10 — so complicated
a thing to dissect. Still I have no name for this melancholy sense
that elbows against my stomach and lungs
shoving for space inside my very skin.