Home Again
Time
works its cure,
like a few surgeries, or mice
eating away the glue, rice,
and glitter from your wedding cards—
a
long way, whether it’s miles or memory.
Twice,
I stopped, walked around.
The
first time—old sleeping bags
slumped against boarded windows
and a crack house stood next door.
After
four years, new dual panes,
and a glassed-in porch shone
like a beacon. I peeked
in
the living room where the baby
grand stood, the windows where we hung
paper draperies—the empty space
where we listened to Red Skelton,
and Let’s Pretend, and rugs
were rolled back on Saturday night.
The
crack house is still next-door,
and I didn’t search the coal bin,
but, on the doorstep, a child’s toy cup,
milky green glass, and a tiny hole
for even the smallest finger.
Jeanine Stevens
was raised in
She has three chapbooks: Boundary
Waters (The Indian Heritage Council, 2005), The Keeping Room
(Rattlesnake Press, 2006) and The Meaning of Monoliths (Poet’s
Corner Press, 2006). Her poems have been
published in The