The House Knows

The glass in my hand is cold and sweating.

I’m treading the hallway like a thief,

trying to bypass the radiator’s sighing

and the person sleeping through their grief.

The laminate is peeling at the corner,

curled up like a dead leaf on the floor.

It catches the wool of my sock,

a snag that stops me at the door.

Then the board near the linen closet

gives a long, wooden "no."

A groan that settles in my teeth

and tells me I have nowhere left to go.

I stand in the dark with the water,

listening for the shift of a quilt.

The house has a memory for weight

and a very loud way of tracking guilt.