Poem 126


There are rooms in the house just the way I left them.

Behind doors I will open and fall to the furniture 
My childhood home with the living room couch my mother despises
A bathroom with dry purple flowers beside the sink
The soft sunlines of a painting hung and never adjusted
Down the hall, my ran-sack room just as I left it
Even though I packed the boxes myself
Even though I drew the curtains myself
Even though I cleared the cabinets myself 
There are places in me that keep safe in their own time…
And when I must, I crawl under the covers and am then again. 

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