I am the abandoned house.
You: the seeker. Was I ever
more than a lurch in the stair,
a stove needing elbow grease,
gall in the splintered bed frame?
Call off the realtors, the house flippers
and vandals. The loosestrife chokes
the backyard, and through the cracks, an undertow
of dragonflies come and go. Some ricochet
against the walls, peter out and leave behind
concentrations of iridescent wings in the sills.
I am and am not here, hiding,
which is to say I’m shadow-
boxing loneliness again.
I am the abandoned house.
You: the seeker in the window
peeking in, daring me to declare
myself found. Count to one hundred again,
this time louder. If you could be
the shaft of light, the wedge in the door,
I could grow bold,
and when it’s your turn to hide,
bear in mind this vow:
you will always be within ear-
shot of love, it’s patient count,
whenever I’m around.
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