Isabel Kimos


when I was small,A
my mother took me by the elbows 
and made me swear I would never leave her behind.
at four years old that promise was simple-
still confined to the safety of her arms,
unknowing of the universe surrounding me,
I knew in my heart that I could not bear to abandon her. 


at eighteen I knew in my soul that I must flee.
trapped by this tiny town and the little it could offer me,
I bought a bus ticket with spare bills and loose dimes.
my childhood home vanished through the back window-
I will forever remember the sight of my mother,
perched on the porch with tear-riddled eyes,
as she screamed that I was chasing a petty idyllicism 
which had already passed me by. 

free, I suppose

the city is larger, and so much emptier,
than the sanguine image my dreams designed. 
some days I miss the safety of her arms- 
the universe is lonely, mother, so lonely.
I just want to be held; I want to be home. 

relinquished pilgrimage

the train carries me back to her and that childhood home.
I crane my neck toward the window as concrete fades to trees,
leg bouncing with no relent while the train car jostles on the tracks below.
(this does little to calm my frantic jumble of nerves).
on my right hand is a hastily scrawled note-
train leaves at ten, dinner at six.
mother will accept me either late or not at all,
and too much time has passed for me to know which she might choose.
I am filled with a terrified exhilaration, 
face pressed against the window, mind primed with possibilities.
I suppose there will always be a part of me that is searching for home.

About the Author: Isabel Kimos is a teenage writer living in the United States. This is her first formal publication, though she has written several other works over the years after  finding her passion for writing at ten years old. She hopes that, in sharing her work, others will be inspired to do the same.