Poetry: It’s the House by Megan Mary Moore
It’s the House
who asks me to leave one morning.
She sighs and settles around me,
I peel my cheek from pillow, damp with drool.
What do I do it asks, to make you pack.
I think that’s mine, it says about the paperback I grab.
Her shutters quiver when I pass the vanity.
I’ve thought about cutting your hair while you sleep.
I put the hairbrush back.
The door doesn’t creak when I walk out.
In the street a parade of neighbors with sleep crusted eyes,
goosebumped in the dew. We all know, but still ask: