Bath, in House Alone

The unexpected has happened.

Children gone, husband away,

and I alone in hot wash

of rocking water, pores open

to whatever may come.

A whirr, long whine from aging pipes—

cricket? imprisoned insect?

echo of neighbor's saw

through ground not yet frozen?

I think it is my spirit,

coming home,

pushed away as I push

all who would draw near,

that part of me so long lost

that I fear never to find again,

so long lost that I scarce

remember its being.

I have looked

in quake of overwhelming loss,

in vile wind that assails me daily,

in fire of anger, in acrid smoulder,

in bitter lees of dying flame.

I have looked for you,

spirit of myself.

I hear you now

coming home

in the quiet settling of this house,

in the lap of this hot water,

in this being still.