Field of a Home

I could smell the mulch gripping the soles of our sneakers

the leathered foliage crisp beneath my light steps. 

My fingertips blanch in his grip

toward the coldest front door I’ve known. 

He turns the keys in the familiar manner

of one who knows. 

The locks might have protested, if they weren’t

as mute as I am, as I have been since. 

I can remember all the scent of wood and tree

in that field of a home with carpets that creaked with us. 

He pulled the wet wisp of hair sticking to my face. 

He would never be gentle again. 

All I know there, a leaf quivering

as though, I should have been.  

I must be beautiful in my weakness.