One shoe off, then the other.
Quiet, besides the rhythmic replacement
of clothing fabric against my skin.
The lights don’t buzz;
the sink doesn’t drip, for once.
My day is as quiet as my nights were on Inis Mor,
I being the only one awake once
after “Good Will Hunting” was over,
and we in our corner room, tucked in.
I see me, climbing out of bed,
socked feet padding to the window,
and the breeze was like...
Cape Cod,
my grandmother,
my childhood,
cookies from a boxed mix,
and books from eight cousins.
I exist in many places suddenly:
in the picture frame on my mantle,
in the surf at the bay,
in that quiet little room,
in my sister’s heart,
in the empty locker room after class,
in my memories –
as I unmake and then remake myself again,
taking off one version to be another.
One shoe, then the other.
