The House

I drew it without thinking—

small square on the margin

of my notebook during the meeting,

while someone was talking

about quarterly numbers.

Square. Roof. Chimney.

But the windows don't match.

Two on the left.

One on the right, too high.

No door.

The smoke from the chimney

comes from a place I didn't draw,

rises from a gap

that isn't there.

After the meeting I looked at it.

It took me a minute.

My hand had drawn the inside

onto the outside,

had made a map

of where I keep the light

and where I keep it dark,

had shown me that I'm lopsided,

that there's no way in or out

that I've actually drawn.

I folded the page.

Didn't show anyone.

But I keep thinking about

that chimney—

the way smoke rises

from a place that doesn't exist,

the way my hand knew

before I did.