My mother was my first home.
She kept me in the cove of her womb
while she washed dishes
and swayed to music in a language
I would one day learn.
Her body was the first state I lived in.
A vessel of transport which cared to walk
barefoot for the feeling of earth against her skin.
She was the first place I moved my body,
the first place I listened to Patsy Cline,
The first place I knew.
The first place I left.
My mother was my first home.

-aac

Circa 2019