Driving by Your House after One Year

D.C. Porder

The sycamore waves a palm

of dead leaves. Its roots

wind beneath the road

like nerves, sensing

my weight.

The swing where

I whipped you stutters

in a breeze, twisting

around its frame, stuck suddenly

with the memory of wind.

The weather-vane turns

away, refusing to watch

as I slow and idle and stop.

The car’s exhaust plumes

like exhaustion. I step out

and pace down your speechless drive.

My fingers tighten into fists.

The windows shutter their eyes.

The house holds its breath.

D.C. Porder is in his 20's and works at a museum. He has studied poetry at Oberlin College and the New School. For the time being he lives in New York City and doesn’t sleep.