Between Bruises & Blooms

I have been teaching the rooms
how to hold their breath.

Bleach in the sink.
Blankets squared at the corners.
Every small thing returned
to the place where good things
are supposed to live.

As if order is a language
the universe understands.

As if I can bargain
with the hinges.

I keep preparing
for footsteps
that have not been promised,

making beds for ghosts
who are still warm somewhere else,

counting cups,
folding shirts,
wiping fingerprints
from places no one
has accused of being dirty.

The house watches me
move from room to room
like a woman trying
to outrun a verdict
that has not yet learned her name.

Outside,
the road remains a road.

It does not apologize
for carrying people away
or refusing to bring them back.

So I polish the quiet.

I feed the animals.
I gather the loose pieces.
I make the hallway passable
for small bare feet.

And somewhere beneath all of it
is the old animal in me,

circling.

Listening.

Certain that if I stop moving
something terrible
will notice.

By morning,
everything shines.

Even the ache.

Especially the ache.

And still,
the door
does not open.