At home, beige, tight walls squeeze

until you pop

outside to discarded happy-

meal bags, cigarette buds, broken-down

cars that rust

your lungs with the ash

of your parents and their parents,

every parent who never

left, their heels dug too deep

in the poor Florida soil, weeds

wound tight around their ankles.

 

You are lucky; your parents will end

here, but did not start here. Without roots

you leave

to university, green

and gold confetti, sprawling

fields, fuchsia poinsettias curled

around unending gazebos. Yet

somehow your steps stick, vines peeling

from their poles, encasing you,

crowds of thousands

 

walking past. Cocooned

in lush, verdant ropes, you drudge

to class, awaiting more

distance, practiced scripts, awkward

ice breakers. It’s all there, and yet

there’s more. This professor

writes, travels, hosts, and still, gifts

infinite

time inside his dim office overflowing

with books, thank-you

cards, mugs from students, including

yours. He retells

his own pestering,

loitering, youthful admiration

of writers so you know

not to worry about taking

too much, about being

too much.

 

Because of him, you make it

to grad school. In California, you expect

every professor’s door

to swing open, red

carpets and blaring trumpets

guiding you

to the room

of your choosing. These halls glow

brighter, cleaner, and yet remain

silent, stale, the door

at the end, where you thought

you were headed, locked. You falter,

 

and the vines slither back, tickling

your toes. You crush them, grind

their whining green whips under

your heel, steps strengthened

by the professor who taught

you were more

than your landscape.