“Where are you from?”

I paused, bemused as never yet before
upon the inquiry. What could it have meant
in the dominion of the bears, their prey
too hitching rides across the continent?

A question too familiar, with my accent
in our parts of the lower forty eight
where I still was marked an alien resident
though where I had found my life and its mate.

For the first time, considering the weight —
Is the truth my birth or my destiny?
Do glaciers get to choose from where they come?
Clouds, oceans, peaks — is it all, is it any?

“Boston,” I said. And skipped a breath too many.
And in that instant saw, the asking eyes
fill up with doubt of my belonging there.
And yet embraced the stir, to my own surprise.

For that’s my truth, though it still today belies
severe examinations undergone,
like sitting back-to-back to prove our bond,
a portent president’s portrait looking on.

Where, as the airport Uber drove along
warm memories of the river, the half dome,
she squeezed my hand and with ease I yearned
settled that very tired query, “From here, we’re home.”