In the damp night and dry morning,
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.