Still Not Fixed

She kept going in and out all afternoon

carrying water nobody asked for,

and the screen door did what it's done

since I was ten—

slapped shut, then rattled in the frame

half a second later,

aluminum on aluminum,

like a throat clearing itself.

Never latched right.

My father said he'd fix it

every June I can remember.

I was on my knees in the garage

sorting through a bin of extension cords

and each time the door went off behind me

I stopped what I was doing.

Not startled exactly. Something

closer to caught.

She brought out lemonade.

She brought out crackers on a paper plate

nobody touched.

The door kept going.

I told myself for years

I don't miss this house.

And there I was with dust on my palms

and that slap-rattle, slap-rattle

calling me wrong

from the kitchen.