Back Home in Winter

by Abby Meyer

Driving back home, familiar sights
like the opening credits
of a film on every Christmas.

I sleep in cold sheets.
When I fumble in the dark
the lights aren’t where I remember.

In town, new shops and old faces,
none yours. The compass of my vision
swings and keeps swinging.

and I am standing, northless.
I call you, and blame you
for the alignment of stars.

and how could I explain?
that the wood pigeons I remember
don’t call this time of year.

How could I explain?
that you don’t hurt me
but by existing, and not here.