Poem: Letting Myself In

Letting Myself In

by Anne McCrady


There are no smells of supper cooking

in the skillet that rests behind cabinet doors

that match the ones hiding your plates

and cups, your measuring spoons and mixing bowls.

Dishcloths sleep folded in top drawers;

kitchen chairs are gathered close around the table

like fearful children to their mother’s side.

The fireplace, hungry for logs and glowing ashes,

crouches cold and vacant against a book-cased wall.

Upstairs, wide windows frame an open sky

from inside rooms where clothes hang lifeless

and the beds crave the weight of sleep.

The carpet, with its uncrushed strands,

is as clean as a Sunday morning suit:

no slips of thread, no paper scraps,

no brittle bits of leaf or grass.

There is no one to scuff muddy feet outside

the door or ring the bell…or answer.

But you are here as sure as when I visited

last week, when life still slipped along

as it has done for all these years.

I’ll gather things that you will want

in your new place and hope you will not hear

in what I bring, the silence

you have left behind.



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