The house has a rhythm I’m learning to hear

The house has a rhythm I’m learning to hear,

a language of settling, a language of fear.

I’m thirty years old but I’m ten years old too,

watching the shadows for something that’s new.

The coat rack is frozen, a man in the hall,

leaning his weight up against the white wall.

The blue of the stove clock is eerie and flat,

lighting the floor like a cold, plastic mat.

Then the ice maker drops with a clatter and thud,

sending a shock through the pipes and my blood.

The bin is so empty, the sound is so loud,

drifting through rooms like a heavy, dark cloud.