You cannot go back to that place.
Not even if you rip all of your hair and teeth out.
Not even if you walk barefoot (however many miles)
On the hot, hot road, until tar and asphalt sticks between your toes.
Not even if you wear your hair the same as you did
Then. Unbrushed, badly braided, tied with silver elastic
And even if you cloak yourself
In frosted cranberry and menthol aloe vera and warm plastic
You still can't go back.
And you especially cannot go back
If you retrace your steps, study the Martian maps left behind,
Attempt to stumble there, organically, hoping
At any turn you will find it again, hiding between the rocks.
You can't go back there even if you make it for yourself
A sacked castle made of too-damp sand, no shells
No sticks. Saltwater and mud mingling at the bottom
Of a hot pink bucket. (A present.)
And even then, even when you're there, you can't go back.
.
.
.