I’ll miss you, house. I’ll miss your heart in my heart. I’ll miss
your chairs at the center of the large cold room at the
center of the cold winter. House, I’ll miss you. I’ll miss the
creak of floor and grey dust balls from your wide-open
mouth. The thought of coming home to you and wanting
you when I go. House, I’ll miss the sun on my body through
the cracked window, through the brown shade. I’ll miss your
blast of heat and cool of air, the whirl of laundry in the
room where I imagined I’d fold the belongings of my lover.
House. House. House. I sigh each time I say that word. Like
it’s a dead mother I miss, or dead child I mourn. My house,
sweet and clean, a fresh peach between my teeth.
LOREN KLEINMAN