Moving Day
On moving day, we would carry out our beds, Our dressers, the sofa and dining table, Wipe down any trace of ourselves from the counters. We would vacuum up our footprints. Burning a candle in the windowsill of the empty rooms Leaving behind country apple or cherry blossom In our stead, Blowing out each flame without making a wish- And that security deposit would be ours. In every house I watched you, I listened. I held your words in one hand while trying to work with the other, Because there was no place in me to put down what you said. There was no space unless I gave up something else in me. In one new house, the garage door was padlocked And we had to cut it off Before we could settle in. We did not know what the house looked like inside but we called it home. “Wait ‘til you see,” you said excitedly, while We waited, fidgeting, in between homes with all of our books, our blankets, Our clothes and kitchen gadgets. “Just wait ‘til you see.” And for just a moment we weren’t anywhere. Standing on a burned-out bridge between all we had left and all we had hoped for. I had questioned you before and I had gotten the same feeling. I learned that silence afforded me home. Silence let me in. Like the suitcases I never unpacked because we would just move again, I hoisted your words and deeds into every over-loaded van, Rolled them under the bed in every spare room. There was nowhere to sit them. I watched for you to soften into a merciful shade of yourself, The way you picked unripe tomatoes before the late frost and sat them in the windowsill. But sour and bitter green, you blamed the poor for their struggles, the hated for their love. You spat out any type of otherness that could question your rightness. But I was the other. I was the question. And I bit my tongue while you traded empathy for the upper hand. You loved my silence But never the person trembling inside of it. I can’t say anything to change your mind But I can say goodbye, Leave the suitcases under the bed, There’s nothing left to unpack And now I’ve got both hands free. I will wash you out of my mouth Out of my hair Out of my clothes And speak a truth that scares you. I’ll cross those bridges And you will burn them behind me, Cut me off like a thorn But I will find a stillness, a peace Like candles burning in an empty room, Like an open window in summer- A silence not from bitten tongues but of tomatoes ripening in the sun. What looks like shears to a lifeline is really bolt cutters to a padlock And wait ‘til you see What you’ve opened. And wait ‘til you see What you’ve let out.