It will be a world without television screens
flickering anxious light up living room walls,
forever leaking that sick dread, static, low hum.
There will always be clean dishes and bedsheets,
a warm space to lay my head, empty before I dream.
The house will be deadly quiet, all vaporous peace.
Gas me out with the smell of orange blossoms
budding white. My garden will be prolific, vivid.
I’ll sting my hands on the leaves of yellow squash,
lie out in the heat before dusk as the overripe sun 
drips grapefruit pink. And I’ll go out in the morning
snipping wet lavender, deadheading climbing roses
that regrow denser with each cut. The wind will snake
behind the nape of my neck, kiss me as an old lover.
The mockingbirds who shriek like wounded dogs
from the gutters of the house will cry no more,
they will not know the noise to mimic it. Instead,
they’ll be forced to sing, as song is all they’ll know.
The road sirens will not exist, but the distant cars may
be allowed to roll onwards, unrushed, a background
to frame my sanctuary. But I will leave when I want to,
return when I please. Shameless, guiltless, a blessing to be
satisfied by any choice. It will not be a horror or threat 
when the doorbell chimes. The mail carrier will bring
no hospital bills. My unwounded heart will beat smoothly 
and know that it wants this, to live.