Home
by Emily Kurn


It is midnight
by the time we get home

and lean our suitcases
against the kitchen wall.

The teapot is dry on the stove,
the sink is empty of dishes,

and the unread newspapers,
still in their wrappers, crowd the wooden table.

We move slowly through the hall,
whispering our way into the darkness.

In the bedroom,
we peel off our clothes,

wrinkled from hours of travel,
and slide into cool sheets.

As the sand shakes loose from our hair
and we are finally still,

a thousand geese outside
open their wings against the sky

and begin their long journey home.






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