Sometimes, I think about leaving my footprints in a house that sent me no invitation

Did they ever think the Paris Review could be overlooked and underpriced?

The tablecloths needed just one more wash, but they ran out of time before detergent

A locket that once held everything now in a stranger’s hands, on a stranger’s neck, holding nothing

The secrets whispered in the secret garden flew away with the swallows last summer, never to be swallowed again

Sometimes, I think about writing about a house that sent me no invitation

Did they ever think a stranger’s review could hold her hostage for three seasons?

I run the wash as I run out of softener, dancing in the kitchen, curling my ankles to avoid the melancholy on the floor

I lock the back door so everything stays the same

I dream of swinging in the secret garden in my mind, for one day, my linens, too, will be thrown on the floor by a visitor I was never inclined to meet

Alas, what attracts an alien more than a foreign object? The shiny ones were always beaming to me, too…