Snail, or, To a House by Aracelis Girmay

Snail, or, To a House

I can not say what was on the bed the day we left

& if the blinds were drawn over the windows.

How does one hold

a whole live house

in a brain?

But there were bowls, & glass,

cereals in the pantry, cloves, folded

clothes.

Back then

the snails gathered at the water hose, their feelers

prodding alien in the dusky afternoon, summer of wasps

with their mud cities

hanging down.

The pots caught drops & drops of rain

while gardens grew for morning, out in back.

Our house, that house & nation of beams

all crossed with wooden light above the people,

I loved you.

& it is only love to see you

obese in this new city

following me on the train & at the job.

Forgive me then, I did not even look twice,

or good & hard like in a mirror.

I could not even know

that we were leaving.

The story goes: it was the best thing

to leave you & the king,

to have start-

                   ed

            all over with

only those things

we carried on

            our backs.