The body knows things
before we know them. It feels
them without tongue or need of drum:
I knew something was gone
from our home before I saw it. The door
once party-painted blue (with a butter-bronze
blush) was rust-thin and red.
I came home, no
smell of orange, no
cinnamon. Only two empty wicker chairs,
a forgotten view, some webbed things
revealing ambiguous amounts of time.
I came home, the air was shocked-still
and only Father sat, head-hung,
at the head of the table.
It takes something more than love
to build a home. To build a home
one must imagine love as a crumb.
A crumb, and you must be starving
for something other than bread.
And you must think of life
without gold, you must think
of a sharp gale, a narrow bed and cold,
To build a home you must allow
certain vowels to elope
with ease, and shapes to float.
Of course, when I came home
my father didn’t say that, he only said,
She’s gone and she took the baby, too.
Image by: Lee Cohen