When a house falls it falls not like an empire

but all at once, paying no heed to prosody,

this stanza the only room left to populate

with what you would’ve taken had you had

the chance: postcards on the fridge. Foreign currency

in a plastic box under your bed, money sewn

into a feather pillow and the pillow to smother

the memory of mother’s crocheting, the junk

in the everything drawer that now appears

so essential, the kitchen table and armchair

accustomed to your movements. There was no time

to say goodbye to the plants, explain

you weren’t leaving them voluntarily.

It didn’t matter these were just objects deposited

in the deluge of years, everything

in that moment had a heart,

everything was precious and fragile like your one

and only life which you carried in your hands,

along with a blanket, for the night and its frost.

You would’ve taken the jackknife, a piece of gauze.

And something that’s useless but can’t bleed–

a page torn from a book. The house keys.