Canton
By Leah Dietle
In the cold of early April,
when the frost still clings to grass like enamored lovers,
and winter’s last icy breath clings to spring’s dew-
that’s when I was brought home.
My hometown:
a modest white house with wood in the back,
serving as the backdrop of my escapist fantasies.
Running feet crunching sticks and dirt staining my knees,
the sun casting a hazy auburn in its metamorphosis to dusk;
my mother’s call ricochet between the trees.
Come home,
Come home.
My hometown:
Where buckeyes break from the trees;
digging into my back when I fall.
The sublime knocking at the front door:
Come play,
Come play.
Again, we retreat to woods and poorly architected forts.
Here, I can be anywhere but my hometown.
In the cold of early April,
when the frost still clings to grass like enamored lovers,
and winter’s last icy breath clings to spring’s dew-
that’s when I returned “home.”
Though I relish in the familiar aroma of sauerkraut,
and fondly navigate the dirt paths of my childhood,
its stillness unnerves me.
This is my hometown,
A vacuum of continuation:
A slick, impenetrable glacier among the kinetic ocean waves;
A birthmark I wanted to burn off my body.
A box containing versions of me I outgrew,
and the horrors of what I could have been if I stayed.
This is my hometown,
Stagnant.
I would bring you for my transient reminisce,
And depart in haste.
I’m too far to hear the beckoning calls:
Come home,
Come–
