And if I stand too close

to the cold walls

of the quiet house,

if I let my cheek touch the paint,

my hand will reach out

to grab hold of the door frame,

old and substantial,

its task so simple and essential,

holding open the space

through which we walk

safely every day,

keeping the roof from pushing down

on our crowns.

If I do grab the frame,

press my skin to the inner skin of this house,

I can then let the tears come.

The house mothers me

while I let go of grief.

I could stand here for hours.

The walls and doorways,

the wood floors and windowsills,

the corbels and porches and many, many doors,

they've weathered much more

than my weakness,

my nudity,

my life.



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