Original EveryPoem Studio house-voice poem.
Choose a genuine response. Counts appear only after several readers agree.
My father's chair still faces the window where he watched the street as if expecting a delivery
My mother's hands could find a fever through a forehead, could tell a melon's ripeness
My father's workshop smelled of pine and something electrical— the ozone ghost of a drill
You are leaving. I know this the way I know weather— not from the forecast
My mother carried me before I was a person. Carried me in the dark of her own body.
My grandmother's kitchen smelled like a country that no longer exists.
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