Belonging Is

“Belong To Me” by Joleyn – click for info

This is a poem by Brit Hanson

Belonging Is

a lime squeezed into a stiff drink
convincing me
to order another;

a tent filled with
flashlights, sleeping bags
and 3rd grade buddies;

a subtle
front porch
wave.

Belonging Is

the safe place
to land,

the certain spot
undeniably yours.

Belonging Is

Pulling up a stool at the bar while Calvin buys me a drink; he knows what I like.

It’s the sage that Mar dried for me months before I moved, knowing I’d need a taste of home when the time came. The way Jon leaves the porch light on when she’s out with her friends.

Or the door propped open, awaiting my arrival. The ecstatic dog lick on my face. The hug around my hips by the tiny one. The dark beer cracked open and handed to me as I sit at the dining room table.

It’s the six pack I have waiting for my love. When he gets home from yet another long, hot journey. The breakfast he cooks me after the cold war that sent us both to bed without speaking.

Or the kitten who peeks her head over the balcony, scanning for the bowl of milk I left to lure her home.

It’s the tracks to which I always return, the ones that touch the right nerves. The nerves in need of reawakening. The nerves, though I wasn’t certain which, were slowly disconnecting. One. By. One.

Belonging Is

The moments when we know we are home.
The subtleties that remind us of what is

good
and true
and worth waking for:

The I’ve been here before, when you haven’t.
The this is my place, when you step off the plane.
The I feel that, too, when you’re drunk.
The I’ve been waiting for you to ask, when you’re wide awake and sober.
The I’m not alone, when you read her status update.
The these are my people, when you type their names into the Cc: line.
The I know that loss, when yours is different.
The I needed to meet you, when you bump into a stranger.

The seemingly
excessive

I’ve been waiting

[for this song,
this poem,
this friend,

this meal,
this therapist
this job]

my entire life.

When, in fact,
you have.

One deep whiff,
often incommunicable,
of connection
convinces you:

[step back from ledge,
make the call,
say no,
say maybe,
book the ticket,
take her hand,
accept the offer,
say I’m sorry].


Connection is courage,
two seconds before
the disorienting question:

Who will I call?
Where will I go?

When things go to hell,
when I finally get published,
if I lose the baby?

This seat,
this seat is for you;
I knew you’d come.

And when you wonder:
Is all of this a load of shit?

Please remember:
Your gut knows.

Your gut knows
whether this

is nothing more
than a beautifully staged
ruse.

– – –
Brit Hanson is a poet, digital storyteller and social media tutor at www.brithanson.com. You can find her on Twitter (@bnhanson) and Facebook.

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