Buried Name

about home, once mine; from upcoming book; published books are at inkwhisper.gumroad.com

My father's house,
where I first learned silence,
where the roof cracked in winter,
and my father would say,
"Shh, it’s just the snow breathing."

Now even snow avoids that place.
No doors creak anymore.
Grass grows where the path once knew my feet.
Someone else sits under that roof now,
while I, his son, stand aside
like I was never there.

The walls don’t ache,
nor the threshold.
What hurts is my name in the foundation,
buried in plaster,
painted over like it meant nothing
to anyone.

I looked back
one last time.
Took nothing with me
but the scent of wax,
a wooden box
where he kept nails and bits of wire,
and a sentence
I never spoke.


Published books are at inkwhisper.gumroad.com.