Rochelle Nameroff Finding the Way Home Darling, I've been watching the monkeys. I've been slouching on the bed all morning, elbows on pillows, and watching the monkeys. I saw the uakari monkey from Brazil with its shaved magenta face, the spider monkey swiping handfuls of fruit, while his tail, like a tough fifth hand, spread its fingers around the tree.  I looked at the elegant blue genitals of the vervet. But just because there's a nature book on the blanket doesn't mean that I'm a fake. I'm on page 273 where a photograph of a very young loris from Malaysia stares back at me, its two hunk-of-coal eyes threatening to become one or cry trying. The book calls it an Asian bush baby, a relative of the lemurs and tarsiers. Denise once said I was a lemur because of my eyes. Not because of sadness I hope. When I got rounder my pet name was Panda, and Ron called me a Little Bear for years. I think I am this loris in front of me though who clutches its one uncertain twig forever, two eyes inside a puffball of hair. The book shows that eyes are not enough, that toes are good.  But the loris finds its way home at night by the smell of urine. It pees on its paws and then handprints the map of its own home territory like a signature of tears. I would prefer a cleaner scent myself but I'd close my eyes in happiness if you walked in right now, your body smelling of warmth and abandonment, of cigarettes and books and years of abandonment.

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