An Inheritance

Two weeks and already the rooms 

refuse me.  

The walls have grown 

strange, 

the chairs have turned away.

In the light of the barn lamp,

a moth returns to its little death. 

We are desperate: to fall, smoldering,

we love it, 

a paper martyr, 

perfected by flame. 

My suffering could unmake a century

I learned this in the half-light

of your absence.

I once believed love was a door left ajar, 

wind and light would pour in 

through the keyhole, through every crack. 

But love is a field without gate or animal,

a river with no mouth. 

You walked out of this house, 

and took nothing with you.

I am what you’ve left to linger:

shadow unstitched,

I cross every threshold like smoke.