We are far away from the house.
Does the house sense our absence?
No faucet drip for eleven days.
The sink bone dry.
The sun warms night from the windows.
The drapes remain closed.
The walls echo no sound of slippers
shuffling toward first coffee.
Does the floor miss the tread of feet
bearing human weight?
Has the bathroom mirror forgotten faces,
the full-length bedroom mirror whole bodies?
The furnace goes on. Nobody warms.
—————————————————-
I imagine my body when I’m dead.
Will my body have questions?
Where have you gone?
Are you coming back?
The irrevocable insult.
My autonomous body being borne by others.
My body is not used to being done to.
My body is used to doing.
All these years I have been a verb.
Am I now a noun?
The ancient question urgent in each generation.
What is the nature of what is gone?