April 20

I’ve spread a myth that days exist
in my past when I would’ve left
my home, my happy home, in search

of Natalie Merchant.

Something comforting in her lovely
and twisted lyrics made me wish
she would whisper incomprehensible

things to me at dinner about pasta.

Now I can admit, the home I left
and here reimagine had little joy to it.
Her songs, in retrospect, sought pity

and offered hope, at best,

only in comparison. I left
not for sweeter peaks or meals
sauteed in pilaffed conversation

but for wild tongues and happiness.

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