I am a home and not.

My fingerprints’ whorls

Carry the scent of cardamom for gingerbread,

The scratchiness of the record she only played for the holidays,

The jangle of the keys when he arrived home smelling of sweat and money.

I carry you as you’re lifted out of the car at the end of the night

To be tucked in, snug as a bug in a rug. Good night.

Oh, you’re awake?

Blow out you room’s lamp from your bed.

One, two, see? It’s out. Magic.

But you can’t touch it—

Remember, I’m not here.

I am the home-shaped hole you work to fill

For the rest of your life.