Upon Returning Poem by Alexandra Reiss

I lean outside my window
the window at my parents' house,
on the 14th floor facing the service alley.
I feel at home for the first time in ages. But
this is not my home. Not
anymore.

I have already studied the old photographs,
palmed the old treasures—
where did that old wooden idol, Yojo, who
used to sit enshrined in the corner, get to?
When did that album become scratched?
These things were once sacred. These things
were once mine.

I used to turn the lights real dim and
play that old psychadelia on the Crosby.
We used to use flashlights to make "lightshows"
on the ceiling, bang the djembe, burn the cones of
rose and sandalwood incense.

The burn mark on the dresser is still there, so are
my notebooks and my old blazers, hanging
in the closet. Underneath my desk, there is still the
list (in pencil) of all the boys I had kissed and
all the ones I still meant to.

I will leave again in a few days but I had hoped,
like with an old friend, to pick up where I left off. Now,
I know that there is nothing left for me here, (almost)
nothing seems familiar. We have both changed but now,
I am the stranger.