the hungry hours, and bloated minutes,

the high rise of the sun pitching itself too early at the streaked window,

whispering all that is held high and holy above the enduring green

of the rain-watered lawn that surrounds and separates

our small brick home with its bright door

from what came before (Could it be so? Could it be real?):

jagged glimmer in the afternoon sun,

shard of memory— clamped in my palm

for the pain of it, gripped,

as I promised myself, to remember

always that other one defiant

outside that other house,

smashing plates against the curb,

as I sped away in the clunky U-Haul

with the rest of the box, Grandma’s best,

to some other life that turned

and turned again,

and walked through our door

and, with the same family china,

set our table, celebrated our small joys,

fed our safe children

not his, not his, not his.