Did you sit on this stoop with a cigarette at sunset
watching the kiddos circle on their bikes,
cul-de-sac skid marks - a pebble zesting of fresh grown skin,
the birds in one last burst of energy hollering
along with the neighbor kid, 8 years old and so sure,
the Douglas Fir’s buxom black edges cut the pinkening sky,
how can branches so weighed down still turn up at the end?
This house makes me sick every month without fail,
a dryness at the back of the throat,
an aching that starts behind the eyes
and curls round my spine like a root taking hold,
an almighty grip on my neck and the small of my back -
places where your husband might have come
to stand beside you and rest his hand.
For one day each month I grow cold inside,
like October days darken into February nights,
like when your kids moved out one by one
and your husband faded with cancer,
his edges becoming indistinct like the pattern in the linoleum floor
until it was only you and your cigarette
and the cold metal of your oxygen tank
Maybe you watch this new mistress slow
as I wonder if it’s the nicotine
underneath the fresh paint and new rugs,
or the flowers blooming again outside my cracked window at night,
or mold from the exhalation and expiration of life in this house
that has gotten under my skin and humbles me time and again.