Samuel Minier:

Writing in the Dark

No house truly stands vacant.

Each resident past leaves pieces

behind, half-hints of soles

still treading.

This is what I found

still treading

in the house I bought

Love -

- of rubber bands, hair bands, hair

hair beads, beady-eyed toys, coin

faces erased in grime, candy glittering

like purple stones, whole meals of cereal

and cooked noodles.

Tenderness -

- in layers of grease that clung

like memory, the color of ear wax

and the feel of glue, smelling

of curry and unwashed hands.

Warmth -

- from the heating vent, baking

spilled fuit juice into a grey lake, complete

with lollipop driftwood and

many smiling snack-cracker fish.

And two more fish, not smiling,

not snack crackers.