"My Hometown Is a Place That Doesn't Exist"

"My Hometown Is a Place That Doesn't Exist"
by Ellena Kilgallon

My hometown is a place that doesn’t exist.

From the age of one, I’ve moved around the world more times than my fingers can count. My hometown is a series of connect-the-dots in no particular pattern.

It used to bother me that I was neither Australian nor American.

I remember gum trees and Scarborough Beach and burnt hotdogs at Christmas. I’m familiar with Fourth of July fireworks and baseball games and High School Musical.

My hometown isn’t a place – it doesn’t exist. But I remember my mother reading me Chronicles of Narnia in Sydney and in Phoenix. My late night talks with dad span a dozen years and a dozen homes. My brothers played pirates with me and then listened to my short stories in college.

Maybe I didn’t live in the same house my entire life. Maybe I have dozens of friends who have never met around the world. Maybe I’ll never stop craving the next city, the next restart. 

My hometown doesn’t exist. But I do. 

"With You"

"With You"
by Ellena Kilgallon

I fell asleep right there with sand
in my teeth and sand
in my hair.
But then, so did you,
the bright sun winking
on a handful of shells, pearlescent swirls,
sea-salt memories of sunburned afternoons.
When the sun kissed my eyelids awake, 
I turned to look at you,
to push aside your hair and to feel
the warm skin on your back.
Our faces were aligned, 
my eyes to yours and my mouth to yours.
We stared unblinking. You reached
your hand to touch
my cheek.
I closed my eyes.

"Two Heads"

"Two Heads"
by Ellena Kilgallon

Two heads at a desk,
Your hair in knotted curls,
His black sheen hunched over a laptop.

Someone whispers a joke
And you're laughing uncontrollably,
Brown masses shifting
From one shoulder to the other.

I hear your laughter
And I see his glances.
I see it all from the back of the room.

He is unmoving, hiding behind
The blackness of his hair.
His words are compelling, conflicting
With his robotic voice.

How do you not hear him, see his twitching smiles?
How do you not see his eyes?
They follow you even while closed.

"Rose"

"Rose"
by Ellena Kilgallon

Soft head
Sweet scent
Flakes of snow on your scalp
I miss the streak of crimson
On your small and wrinkled forehead

Now you are
Swirling dust in a patch of sunlight
The waxing moon in my window
The photograph on my wall
You are
The rosebud that never opened

"And this is it"

"And this is it."
by Ellena Kilgallon

Beep
Beep
Beeping in my dreams.
Waking me hours before 
even the birds outside
would deem appropriate.
It's no use trying to sleep
After you've stood in your fuzzy green socks
On a swiveling chair
Jabbing at the ceiling with a broomstick.
I toss and exhale outraged breaths
But one, two, three hours pass.
Then I realize
These are the quietest hours
I've had for days, maybe weeks.
So why not write a poem
By the red and green lights
Flashing above my head.

Tanka "Day and Night Merge"

Tanka- "Day and Night Merge"
by Ellena Kilgallon

Day and night merge to dusk-
And nights of fear relieved by sunrise
But Oh! That unmatched eclipse!
Its occurrence-
So rare, so exquisite

Tanka "Seldom do I glimpse"

Tanka- "Seldom do I glimpse"
by Ellena Kilgallon

Seldom do I glimpse you-
your inner strength-
before you hide yourself
like a flower fading
at the hint of darkening shadows.