I could have sworn this was a cave
with thin gray branches at the opening,
a perfect ellipse. No one’s home but home.
No whistle over the opening. A man empties
his lungs entirely, so he can sing, so we can sing.
He looks down at the ground. I look at the cave
and then up at a hawk who left his streetlight
to be here for this occasion of our murmuring
in the presence of animals.

I wish things were different, that the doorway
had no door, crème paint flaking from fifty years
of painting and a smell like new paint, soft from heat,
afternoon sun, flakes a golden white color, and behind me
a breeze. I know there were two of us here, and I don’t know
where the other is. I can’t see the room. Maybe it’s not a room
anymore. Maybe it’s someone’s idea: staircase in the closet,
seven layers of wallpaper and all of them showing.

The cat who died is still mewling by the bathtub,
and I didn’t know her in life. Half a deer is in two tubs
in the refrigerator. One leg is shoving out of a tub,
like a peony, hoof in bloom.

Light brown, the trees closest to me have succumbed
to the cold, their leaves are around my feet,
some I can hear hitting the train in the wind
in little slaps, little slaps of water against
my cheeks. I am so high in the mountains
that the mountains are not mountains,
and sleep is in my chest, making its way
to my throat, the bearer of good news.
A shell’s spirit shares a sound.
The ocean in this case. So, not so empty.
Not an abandoned house. The bed is ready.
The fire is ready.

We have lived here; and we have lived here.

Image by Sean McCormick.