Original EveryPoem Studio house-voice poem.
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She did not keep me small. She kept the door: oiled the hinge,
She does not ask what I need. She brings oranges, sets them in a blue bowl,
Saturday starts with silence, slow and soft, sheets still warm from sleeping in.
It's not the presents. I know it's not the presents because the best Christmas I ever had was the year we couldn't afford them.
Home is not the address. It's the sound the lock makes when you've been gone too long.
The kettle hisses its slow complaint— ssssssss— like a secret it's been holding since last night.
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