by Emily Fisk

Artwork by Autumn Griego

When we were young – and I was ignorant,
we said where we placed our fingers would be home.
One twirl of the world, and we’d be in Brazil by March.

I like to think my sporadic landings were conscious decisions.
As though needing help was the plan –
and church pews offered themselves to sleep –
because it was His plan.

As if the faded pastel colors of a curved world
couldn’t house me,
so sent me searching other homes for a fit.

I like to think it resembled that game when we were kids.

But I have visited every place offered – briefly –
like setting my finger in every state
momentarily on a map.

And still, as I lie curled up in the old elementary school slide,
I have never found home.