M. J. Arlett

The Yellow House

It is someone else’s home.
But if it were ours, I would be on the front porch
cradling a mug in my hands, coffee freshly ground by his.
The huge hush of rain and the fruit of it:
the palm’s fawning limbs, the sunrise fighting its way
through hurricane season’s clouds. He tells me
even babies born blind know how to smile,
which I take to mean that watching his fingers
play silent music on my skin is a gift
after far too long waiting for my eyes to adjust.
I am terrified by this hope awakened.
I feel it suffocating, feathery, shrieking.