In the blatant silence, I hear it:
snow landing silently as assassins
on the lawn, a family of mice fretting in the attic.
Articles of the woman who used to live here
still hang together in closets, arms swaying
against arms, pastel blouses beside stained trousers,
woolen nightgowns, Lycra stockings with runs;
uniforms of the elderly. The musty time capsules
of lotion bottles, night cream, wrinkle cream,
half empty, dried up on the vanity. In every drawer
are amulets for Mary and letters to Jesus,
her longtime pen pal who would finally answer.
In the corner, a plastic commode, her diapers,
the mothballs, antiseptics and gauze.
This is how the pious live: in careful measures.
Six eyes of the last three Popes stare out
from cracked frames, having watched over this house
for ages. I pillage the cupboards, try on her shoes,
blow away dust several lifetimes in the making.
To the night, I am anonymous, a little crawler
like the lady beetles crowded together in window sills.
Another shell of life, greedy for heat.
I feel, in this house, like defying nature,
staying upright while the gold moon grows bone
white over the treeline, ears trained to the preying
of predators, real or imagined, the dark lives
that move across every knoll, a forest of secrets
whispered between drafty jambs,
the house groaning in reply, as though beaten
by gravity to submit: What are you if not occupied?
There is a cadence to the way things fall,
an orchestra of twigs, wind, joists of the body
creaking. The cold dwellings of my hands
find pockets to keep company in, visiting the rooms
like a third-shift nurse, turning knobs, touching
the mirrors. To the bowels of the house, I leave
my coat, my name. In every closet, another life
I can wear until my hair is white, albums of faces
I will learn, borrow their pale expressions.
The many pieces of me move slowly,
settling into themselves like a barn on the horizon
held together with nails and prayer.