The weight of the suitcase handle pulls on my fingers
like a child whose question repeats in perpetuity–
Are we there yet

I’ve closed our front door so many times and hadn’t noticed
until now that the deep wooden thud was our discordant song
spilling down our neighborhood streets

Our first words (excuse me) tripped over
our worst ones (I loathe you) blurring out
our sweetest thoughts (he really loves me) and here

I am, on a sidewalk in October, holding tightly
to my grandfather’s vintage luggage, unable to answer
where I’ll be, still perplexed by how this happened

Retrace: the hope we were gifted, wrapped in silver
and lavender paper, each dish fit just so in the cabin
we couldn’t pass up, tucked as it was into a grove of Douglas firs

Remember: you’re crazy was code for I was right
and no that didn’t make me happy and yes I was willing
to look past her but your fist in my temple packed my bags for me

Reverse: the dew slips from a spider’s thread, the strands
curling back into her abdomen. It is Saturday morning
again and you are still lying in our bed, reaching for me