I am here to return the bowl.
The door is never locked.
The house does not smell of cinnamon.
“Sketches of Spain” not on the turntable,
not in its red-yellow-black sleeve.
Sermon unfinished on the desk,
map open on the sink.
The closet is not empty.
The bedroom light glares
behind its square of frosted glass,
bedside floor polished
by knees and prayers.
The cat sits on the windowsill.
The window is open,
shade a yellow tattered scroll
raised halfway, or lowered.
The crow, itself a shadow,
is not in the cedar tree,
not on the clothesline
with its sagging bag of pins.
What have you given away?
The bowl is filled with apples.
How can I forgive your absence?

© j.i. kleinberg