Imprinting

every hour she waits for a drink
she will reward herself
with one more later—

wants to return to her childhood,
only her own—no one else’s—
wants to laughrunclimbtrees,
lock the bedroom door—

as if that would do anything;
as if a man crossing so many
more substantial boundaries
would be stopped by a hollow
sheet of wood, a bit of brass;

is it a false start
when we leave ourselves,
only to return?
or if we start too late
do we run out
of time to try?

as if to return
would change
a goddamned
thing.

_