I want to belong to one of those tribes that let anyone in,
on a street where no house looks like any other house
and our furniture is trunks and pillows, borrowed carpets.
Or in a double-wide in an abandoned trailer park where
coyotes and buzzards take turns as our security guards
and when it rains it’s special and you take notice, write it
on a calendar that has no other entries, not even years or dates.
I’d like to hunt wolves with golden eagles in Mongolia.
Simmer for an hour, stirring when you think of it, the house
will smell of shallots and ginger. Ice is such a luxury.
It will be a place where everyone speaks a language that
has never been translated, where I will never understand
what everyone is laughing at and it could not matter less.
Spoon it over memories to make them savory and safe.