From the collection published in 2021, And Don’t Come Back.
Through the processes of time
each day keeping to its turn
this visit ends
like all the others in all the years before
and we now arrive at my suitcase
as it silently sets about the beginnings
of being in transit
You fold my clothes with anxious slow precision
I with the satisfaction of finishing a good meal
not hungry for the next one yet.
The rooms that will be counted empty.
Oh, you said I will miss you so much
a long face and a resigned voice. But I knew
pushing aside the piles of clothing
untidy division of folded and waiting to be folded
that when my train leaves the station
the mix of
Hurry up and be gone Please stay another day
the tightness around your ribs
it will relax and let you fall into the
welcome back to us your annotated grocery lists
your careful lawnmowing and your neat quiet house
no one breathing its air but you
Along about two o’clock
you’ll wonder where the train might be on its journey.
once each year
I feel it in my bones I will see you again next year.
3 thoughts on “Interlaced”
You capture and convey that push-and-pull of strained visits perfectly. There is a balance to be struck between staying long enough but not too long and it is always somehow impossible to predict.
And you know what, no matter how much I like the visitor, or being visited – I always feel relief at the idea of going home or having my home back to myself.
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