What I disliked most about moving into all those
different places during childhood -- houses
The dark scarred wood of dressers and doors
breathed silently in and out, the salt-grease aroma
of food arose from pots and pans long ago
scorched and settled into their particular seasoning.
Even water boiling was somehow not the same,
the grimy tea kettle hopelessly shrieking out of key.
Soap, perfumes and perspiration clung to every fold
of fabric, laundered or not, the musty basements
and dry dusty attics, the damp funk of dogs
had claimed their territory years before we arrived.
Most days I felt that I had stumbled onto a stage set
without the benefit of lines, or even motivation.
Most days came and went with neither incident
nor reason, the cloudy stove clock ticking.
The air outside felt closer to the truth, even in a place
I did not know. I followed my own tracks from
the day before, addressed the birch trees as family.
When I slept, I curled beneath the covers, knees
to elbows, even in summertime, worried that if I lost
the signature of my scent, I might lose myself for good.
