I know that it is by being unknown to myself that I live (Hélène Cixous)

My body wants
the long way back
just to find lost land
rehearsing what it will be—
unexpected flowerings
locked tight in seeds.

I have searched for this
as one seeks origin:
to find the errant sower
jaunty in a book of days,
the uncertain map
of family trees.

It is that ur-place
of first collections—
black furred caterpillars,
glass jars and grass rash,
time in suspension,
place as mood.

Seeds in my pocket
put me in mind
of the strange, small plants
we grew in the cupboard—
an experiment
that claimed my pity.

And of my nipote,
a love child too,
who took me aside
and mimed at fireworks
with hands and eyes,
his fingers sprays.

We’re like this, you see,
all kaboom and splutter—
who knows where we’ll fall.
Somewhere between
Piazza Dante and Piazza Gesù
is all I am told.

My body wants
the dark of a city
when paths were lit
by shrines, by love,
their frail flames
petals no-one owns.