When did you know you were lost, he asked.
When? When I stood on the rocks watching
the Irish sea explode over my feet I felt
free, not lost. You say “lost” like I fled this country
out of boredom, out of thirst and yes,
parched of excitement — my head
filled only with the embarrassing mistakes of young adulthood,
my final thesis, and the first blush of foreign travel.
As I stood at the end of that alley, my feet unbalanced on
the cobble stone, listening to the tour guide dramatically
retell the story of Jack the Ripper, I knew
my shoes where not my own.
When did I know I was lost? Only after I had returned my feet to
the California sand, but
I found my shoes in the roots of my younger self and my feet in
the strongholds of the macabre — my life in the crevices of simple things.