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.