Goodbye

As a child, I'd say goodbye in my headto everyone I saw; every man or woman that passedI'd fold up in a pocket, like a pair of glassessmudged with fingerprints. I was headed somewhere,somewhere important and faraway, always faraway,and there would be no trip back, no fanfare,and therefore no hellos. I was going, leaving,always waving goodbye to maps marked with X's,and I only ever felt the pull of my skinin apartment after apartment, having left behindmy first and only home. In the corners of bedrooms,I'd sit with a small flashlight, looking at light sockets,wooden floorboards and lint, learning the room in detailso I could say goodbye, my skin tacked up with nails,bent with pliers into rusty window shutters. And when she left meand when he left me, I told myself it was finebecause far from here I'd understand leaving,and besides this is how leaders say goodbye—they say it inside.And so it became easy to make every container full,building bridges to things I left out, like waving goodbyeto dogs, shadows, temperatures, landfalls, skylines, church bells,and yes, for me, even if not you, the day ends because I fall asleep,hands tied to windmills, the lightness of sound, saying goodbye.