The caw of the seagulls
reminds me I am
far from the
cornfields of Illinois.
The mountains
and sea before me
are foreign, yet
a part of me, as if
a self apart from me
that lives within and knows
this landscape well,
is beginning to emerge.
If my brother sat with me,
this view would be incapable
of reminding him of our childhood
cornfields, but perhaps
his secret self would emerge.
We would look into each other’s eyes,
and see not our past, littered with vodka bottles,
and parole certificates
but our future, as we fish it out
of the water and mold it with our hands.
