After the Boxes

The truck was at the bottom of the drive.

I was the last one left. I said

something practical, the way you survive

the final room — and heard instead

my own voice coming back too bare,

the walls returning it unchanged.

Nothing left to take the air

out of the sound. The room estranged

already. On the wall, a hook —

small brass, the kind with a bend —

and the pale oval where something took

the light away for years. The end

of that. The sun still on the floor

the way it always fell. I said

we're ready. Pulled the door.

The latch. The same sound in my head

it's always made. I stood outside.

The others were already set.

The latch sound living somewhere inside

my chest. Not going anywhere yet.

The house behind me, being a house.