Dear homeland,

Late at night I make faltering, useless grasping motions in your general direction. I shift or change my route to fall into orbit, trajectory near intersect. And maybe I will catch your coattails. And maybe if I can hold its length in my arms I will go back home.

These are my rituals: tighten my knuckles for every bird I see in the sky. Linger at your door before fleeing. Try to ignore you because I can’t stand the gravity. I make warding signs with my fingers and place them to my heart.

And this— I don’t know what planet I’m on anymore. I keep suffering the same spiraling motion, the same heat in the lymph node behind my ears; where parts of me go into retrograde. I’m losing, or losing mass. The body-shrapnel like a meteor-shucking, those parts of me making their pilgrimage in flight paths, I know, to collect, on your cheekbones and your bottom lip.

Which even from afar I see you bite sometimes. You are all distance; it is the only reason I survive. I hate to admire you. Perhaps it is the re-entry that hurts most; like you, I've collected remainders. Reminders. Tight in my palm is what little you gave me.

But I want very little. And I want very hard.

Tell me— Is it easy where you are? I should know where that is but the coordinates don't work out like they should. You, fluttering in the same contours as comets. Me, eating on the ground. I imagine the revolution and strain a little closer. On my toes I raise my hand.

But I'm almost there. And I'm almost there.

Yours, Astag