Every day we haul more out.
Every day more remains,
stuff we can neither love nor part with,
shabby, peeling, broken, stained.
Bare redone floors, emptied rooms
ripple with ice-edged air
like the cold of isopropyl on the skin,
or shreds flowing over the galvanized rim
of a bucket of stage mist, melting dry.
“Mama?” calls my grown son,
and the sound shivers, becomes high pitched:
becomes the voice of the three-year-old
we will leave behind with the house.