THE HOUSES WE LEAVE
The houses we leave still need us.
Pantries, porticoes.
Those transoms float
vagrant plans, hopes.
It's only in our dreams they are
planed, hinged, mortared.
Eaves, joints sprouting
if we'll just bring
shingles to them. The Czech crystal:
each bulb dangles
lonely, lightless,
old without us.
Lonely, lightweight, old without us,
newsprint fusses
in the basement,
kindergarten
papers refuse to stay in their bins.
Who can pretend
sump pumps still know
what to do? Stowed
trashbags from breakups unable
to sleep. Gables
dream us back, brass
keys in our grasp.
Janice Moore Fuller from Séance (Iris Press, Tennesssee, 2007)
