Enku Ide’s “of their hometown.”

Enku Ide

Enku’s half

“of their hometown.”

chiseled into my right thigh,
the leg that
takes steps,
bears down on bike pedals,
eases onto the gas
of the car
that arrives,
that leaves,
possessed by a driver who
has never been,
except in his imagination.

Always “their” hometown,
just never my own.
Circuitous paths turn back on themselves:
Mississippi,
Alabama,
Texas,
Illinois,
and back to the start;
skimming the North of the Gulf, the South of the land,
then crossing for a time and back
through Oxford,
Memphis,
Detroit.
To Lexington, KY: 2 years.
The longest tenure,
before migrating again. To
hometowns:
In, but never of

Lifelong friends, loves.
Feeling firm and believing
—“How ridiculous are our dreams!”–
it was my own,
or that I am my own.
Roots, short and thick, laid through our beings,
turning the earth and pumping life.
We were made strong.
Have they broken?
Withered from lack of rain?
Or have they spun our biographies into Legba’s web?
Returning to a dreamscape is never the same
for contemporary Bedouins with contemporary tribes.
Fluid collages of humanity!

Breathe
Take a drag
Grip the gas pedal
Hear the clankity clank
on my way from, my way to
where I will pretend, and I may believe,
that a bodhisattva may rest her head
and touch, and be touched
through the thin soil
of their hometown.

–by Enku Ide

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