Your Own Private Idaho

Your kettle howls like a wolf. This is the kitchen where you watched your first snow through the window. Do you find it cold in here tonight? In every room I see you tug at your heart, dress it in layers. Go, go. But no — you will have your pine tea poured from the pot you grew up with, white with blue stars. Here

is the cup with the butterfly, you’ve worn it down to a pale suggestion of wings — the joy it brings is a faintly flapping thing. Anywhere would be better. Load your bike and ride to the next city, the next state, the next sign of life. What you bear weighs less than you think. Where will you go, once you know this?