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"...and every morning I awake the world looks strangely new...
including you"
- Poet
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I know the living room shifted when you visited— lamp there, easy chair there, the half-scrolled— her scrib— turning its face. Why Your soft hand in mine— a broken latch—won’t… catch— a backdoor left open for someone who never comes— him… maybe— Your grief leaks through me, ghost…draft—chills I can’t— My pink blanket— was it here— was it— your voice… somewhere— I am the ho— home… was… I— you grew up in. The lintels groan. Loose. The basement—bins—boxes— blue wedding al— satin ribbon—faint of wet cedar— faded— bleached walls— dark… pond— seeping up through the floorboards your felt-pen on the wall, small shoes on the stairs the widow’s candle—winnowing— the garden gone to weeds— fresh bread Saturday mornings— I smell it baking though I can’t— I am not. Not yet. But something is slipping— through me past me hiding out of reach— out of touch— olly olly in— free Come… find me. Get me. Please. Before the living rooms dissolve and forget you— my big girl— my— my tears fade with them. warm… buttermilk— You’re— whose… daughter
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