how many generations does it take
to make a place our own,
to stitch us to specific space,
to claim that we belong?
how far must the genetic binaries be chased?
what point is there to trace our Cantor Set,
to climb The Devil’s Staircase to the past,
or hope the mitochondrial rope
tied to blood and bone
will lead us safely through the labyrinth
back to the start?
our restless forebears,
who would not bide
and took to ships to take the world,
confuse our path
we find so many harbours 
from which we did not begin
yet we crave anchorage at one origin
to resolve the fractals in our chromosomes,
so risk imprinting on an arbitrary point - 
we’d rather fix on the most likely locus
than have none -
such is our need to say

this is home