they’re
walking through the wall, to the parlor
where it rains in mid-summer;
where you never patched the holes.
after the spring when
you promised to rebuild the wall
between the garden—
posies and marigolds—
and the girls’ crib.

they’re somewhere between
where the bed lay—
sideways,
where we were together,
but always alone—
and the bookshelf collected
dust on Atlas’s shoulders.

they make tracks in the ash
where mom’s old cedar chest
held heirlooms and your
father’s armchair—
rickety thing.

they’re somewhere—
not here—
between the mailbox
without a home
and us without
hope.