by Judy Kaber

After the timbers rotted
the roof fell in, the garden
became nothing but

a field of hay. We made
our way in, plucked memories
from buried air, wove

stories from broken
toys, discarded clothes.
Here is where you slept.

There the kitchen. We stare
out windowpanes crusty with
shells of dead beetles,

listen for the trilling of crickets
in odd corners. We stake out
the past, pour over scraps

of paper, watermarked words,
remind ourselves of who
we once were. The path

out is anything but clear.
Things break underfoot. Remind
me why we are not here.