Place, Places

The first night you were gone

I heard fingers clawing from the closet

walls. Some mouse maybe, some

thing was caught between stud beams

and plaster. All next day

it tried to dig through, to nest

in your sheets and blankets

tiny paws, teeth, and nose

in a desperate bid for air.

Then all was quiet.

I looked for the gnawed exit,

the footprints, any other signs

of quick release, but nothing found.

Slowly filling from room to room

was the smell of dead flesh and fur.

I opened every window against

the silence and the odorous fusion

of bones into the architecture.

I cleaned the closet anyway,

emptied trash, washed dishes

I had dirtied all alone, remade

the bed with each corner in tight.

Here in full view is a place for me

again. You come home hungry, tired.

And I return from a different journey,

my hands stirring the air, air.

Notes:

This poem was previously published in Love’s Instruments (Tia Chucha Press, 1995) and is part of the portfolio “Melvin Dixon: I’ll Be Somewhere Listening for My Name.” © Melvin Dixon and used with permission of the author’s estate. You can read the rest of the portfolio in the April 2024 issue.

Source: Poetry (April 2024)