I keep looking in every cabinet, searching behind the cushions and ruggaging about under every bed—but I cannot find what is missing. Instead I read romantic novellas about folding laundry; I consider ‘home’ like diagramming a sentence where every word neatly becomes either subject or predicate. So I contemplate action; then I contemplate inaction like burning down a barn but saving all the horses. Who does that? A direct object; perhaps complete syntax. And then the way my mind snaps back because a house is only as tidy as its inhabitants. I mean a home is only as tidy as those who tidy it. I am falling apart like an apology, or the way these hands must keep busy or they turn into arson. Wait—say I am willing. No, say I am wanting; say I am scrubbing all the dishes; say I am so so sorry, again.
Danielle Rose is the author of AT FIRST & THEN (Black Lawrence Press) and THE HISTORY OF MOUNTAINS (Variant Lit). Her work can be found in Palette, Hobart, & Sundog Lit. Twitter: @danirosepoet