September 2021

September 2021

There is a girl here now. Before her another one, often gone and heavy on the stairs when she wasn’t. Before her a man. And before him a man. And before him another man who did not come back to pack his own boxes. And back and back and back they’ve gone and come and nested here. 

They cycle like the birds on the porch, chasing each other off, just looking for a place to sleep for short seasons of their short lives. 

I think this girl wants more than that though. She has come with her boxes and books and shivering. She scrapes the wax off the floors and the mold from the shower and evicts all resident spiders. She lays down carpets and builds up shelves and when she looks at me, I swear it’s through me, to some impossible century ahead, when we’re both still here and grown around each other like tree roots.

Her lease is for a year, and she tells the landlady she’d like to stay longer. Three years minimum, with an option for forever. 

I haven’t decided yet if I’ll keep her,

the apple house