26
	-----------------------------------------------

	When I was 26 I began again.
	I packed what would fit in the car
	and left the rest behind, following
	the highways west and never looking back
	until I had reached the restful ocean.

	Colorado was a mountainous blur
	through pines and thunderstorms,
	sleeping in the parking lot 
	of a Durango movie theatre.
	Music and air passed in a rush
	through my ears, and once I stopped
	at the edge of a cliff and thought
	about how it must be to fly, just once.

	I sped two days through the Arizona
	deserts, the windows rolled down,
	watching the sun rise and fall and blaze 
	through canyons and parched land.
	The trees were twisted and strong,
	the air was thick with dust and sage.
	Coyotes, who have long forgotten 
	what the word 'home' means,
	darted after rabbits, rested under ridges,
	called to me mournfully at night 
	under the barren moon.

	And still I rolled on, feeling the
	emotionless miles spool behind me
	like the breath between sleep and waking, 
	thinking only forward, thinking only 
	California, California, California.
	The word like surf crashed through me.
	Mixed with the taste of salt and sunscreen
	I could feel my pulse beating in rhythm
	with the road, my blood humming in the heat:
	     I never had a mother
	     or anyone who hurt me.
	     I was never fearful or lonely.
	     I never shed bitter tears,
	     was never envious or spiteful.
	     I refuse to roll in the ashes
	     of old flames, or suffocate 
	     on my dreams of silk and white roses.
	     I will not find solace 
	     in disfigurement.
	     I am only who I am now.
	     I am new, whole.
	     I am reborn.