I’m Thinking of Ending Things/Eva H.D / قصيدة فلم أفكر في إنهاء الأشياءnnBonedog by Eva H.D.nComing home is terriblenwhether the dogs lick your face or not;nwhether you have a wifenor just a wife-shaped loneliness waiting for you.nComing home is terribly lonely,nso that you thinknof the oppressive barometric pressurenback where you have just come fromnwith fondness,nbecause everything’s worsenonce you’re home.nnYou think of the verminnclinging to the grass stalks,nlong hours on the road,nroadside assistance and ice creams,nand the peculiar shapes ofncertain clouds and silencesnwith longing because you did not want to return.nComing home isnjust awful.nnAnd the home-style silences and cloudsncontribute to nothingnbut the general malaise.nClouds, such as they are,nare in fact suspect,nand made from a different materialnthan those you left behind.nYou yourself were cutnfrom a different cloudy cloth,nreturned,nremaindered,nill-met by moonlight,nunhappy to be back,nslack in all the wrong spots,nseamy suit of clothesndishrag-ratty, worn.nnYou return homenmoon-landed, foreign;nthe Earth’s gravitational pullnan effort now redoubled,ndragging your shoelaces loosenand your shouldersnetching deeper the stanzanof worry on your forehead.nYou return home deepened,na parched well linked to tomorrownby a frail strand of…nnAnyway . . .nnYou sigh into the onslaught of identical days.nOne might as well, at a time . . .nnWell . . .nAnyway . . .nYou’re back.nnThe sun goes up and downnlike a tired whore,nthe weather immobilenlike a broken limbnwhile you just keep getting older.nNothing moves butnthe shifting tides of salt in your body.nYour vision blears.nYou carry your weather with you,nthe big blue whale,na skeletal darkness.nnYou come backnwith X-ray vision.nYour eyes have become a hunger.nYou come home with your mutant giftsnto a house of bone.nEverything you see now,nall of it: bone.