It's Still Life

Home

when they sold the house
something stayed behind
that I could not return to

I was twenty
living alone
in rooms that knew my name
but not my weight

after that —
heat that pressed against the lungs
streets that ran before they burned
meals I could not name

and always,
a rhythm
I had to learn
with my whole body

and I learned
home is a small arrangement;

a painting
placed where light agrees

a pillow
that knows my shape

one object
that remembers

and that is enough

Written for Writers’ Digest Poem-a-Day Challenge for April 2026. Prompt word: Home