Your Quiet House

I don’t think I ever saw you
In the sunlight. It seems somehow
It rained, was night the whole weekend.

The soft strains of your record collection
Stir in me still ghost-breezed curtains,
Cold legs. The hum of your voice
Against the floorboards in the dark, two rooms away
and properly occupied.

I left one burgundy hair in your bed and an umbrella
Shaking off in the bathtub. Did you hear
The music, the folk songs spinning
Without you? Did you wonder
How I lay, if I dreamt
On one ragdoll arm, or pressed against your pillow,
Or not at all?

At three the house was silent.
At four my veiled eyes caught your fingers' melt
Around the crack in the door, and then I slept.

photograph by Elizabeth Robinson

1 comment:

Kate Horowitz said...

Workshop Verdict: "...very, very elegant" "...incredibly evocative" "leaves me with a penetrating sense of loneliness..." "it's a mystery. I don't get it." "It has strayed...somewhat...from ideals of...linear clarity."

Translation: Woman, what are you trying to say?

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