fly in poetry

Some parts of our past are just like kryptonite,
chunks of where we came from,
rocketing back to take away our strength.
Home can kill you as swiftly as a speeding bullet
more powerfully than any locomotive
throw you off the highest building
if you want to extend the metaphor beyond any usefulness.
Home changes in the time you’re away
and you change of course too
you’re lit by the beams of a million-coloured suns
and home passes through all kinds of distant radiation belts
soon or later
either you’re allergic to you
or home is allergic to you
and you’re left bereft of all your powers.
Your new powers.
You could believe that you could fly,
once,
when you were in a galaxy far far away
but it comes back to you.
A little piece of home
in a lead-lined box
just waiting to suck you dry.
It’s a hell of a thing to be a Superman
back under that red sun that makes you normal
facing down a green glow turning your cells against themselves.
Up up and away
up up and away if you can swing it.
Remember that somewhere you can fly.