To Heathrow, or Bust
You might as well be dead to me. Gone.
by, Angela M. Carter
Didn’t it all follow you through the air,
What more is out there than what is here?
and travel the ocean’s floor--
www.angelacarterpoetry.com
wait at the terminal, smirking proudly, wet and dripping, with a sign in hand-WELCOME HOME!!!
Does it still hate me when you are a world away-or has its pulse weakened by the miles? Does it breathe vengeance more steadily, or did it die since you aren’t around to mother it? “I demand you to come home.” I returned years later to “home”, a lost land; forgiveness, or bust.