The Moment We Can’t Stay
Never so inviting as the moment we can’t stay,
the cleaned house offers everything we want
though now we turn the key and walk away. Windows frame
the set before it’s struck, our next best chance
because the cleaned house offers everything we want
to be: There’s an Eden of the swept, and washed cups,
the set before it’s struck, our next best chance
before we dress again, before the stacks of clothes
to-be. There’s an Eden of the swept and washed, cups
before we broke them, before we spent the pantry,
before we dress again, before the stacks of clothes
were all messed up. We smooth the beds, like promises
before we broke them, before we spent the pantry.
We leave a good impression, as if we won’t come back—but
that’s so messed up. We smooth the beds, like promises;
we leave the centerpiece to blossom without witnesses.
We leave a good impression, as if we won’t come back, but
our better half, a hungry, grateful settler, will return.
We leave the centerpiece to blossom without witness in
our Garden of Interior, its knowledge ordered
for our better half—a hungry, grateful settler. We’ll return,
though now we turn the key and walk away. Windows frame
our Garden of Interior: its ordered knowledge
never so inviting as the moment we can’t stay.
—Jessica Greenbaum, Brooklyn, NY
