The house in my dreams looks like

a single-story in Jonesboro

where I can still map the floor plan,

see in perfect color, shrink under high ceilings.

I would hate it when we’d leave.

There is no stain of sadness there, or

if there is, it is just one scent in the 

jumbled potpourri my not-ripe brain

was too green to call sharp.

When I sleep at night, my lungs will breathe like

it is not burdensome, with the sheer pleasure

of keeping me warm. I am no longer

hollow, now made up of contentment and

my mother’s cooking. She does something wonderful

with Ragu and garlic that I will adopt

as my own. She still loves me,

and touches my shoulder when she says so,

so I hate it when I leave.

I think my love will take shape like

the looming of some heavy blanket,

it would be gradual, painstaking, and

so very soft. I will grow

to care for someone who does & does not

make me crazy, who will & will not

let me alone. I will hate it when they leave.