Hobble Creek Review
| Nancy Devine |
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Tonight I want to go back
to the house where I grew up,
knock on the door, be let in,
see if we are all that remains
of a time that once was nearly everything
I knew. Nearly? One time my body
left my body in my bedroom there,
rising slowly first like the hum before voice.
Then I recognized myself not in me
startled back.
Some woman who’d be a fool
to let me in because she doesn’t know me
is mixing a gin and tonic
in that kitchen of my breakfasts,
my father’s Sanka and cigarettes.
A disappointment it can be
when you go back to yourself inside;
secure the dead bolt.
What if the dead bolt and
the living open the door?
Tonight I want to go back
to the house where I grew up,
knock on the door, be let in,
see if we are all that remains
of a time that once was nearly everything
I knew. Nearly? One time my body
left my body in my bedroom there,
rising slowly first like the hum before voice.
Then I recognized myself not in me
startled back.
Some woman who’d be a fool
to let me in because she doesn’t know me
is mixing a gin and tonic
in that kitchen of my breakfasts,
my father’s Sanka and cigarettes.
A disappointment it can be
when you go back to yourself inside;
secure the dead bolt.
What if the dead bolt and
the living open the door?
Nancy Devine teaches high school English in Grand Forks, North
Dakota, where she lives. She co-directs the Red River Valley Writing
Project, a local site of the National Writing Project. Her poetry, short
fiction, and essays have appeared in online journals and print journals.
Dakota, where she lives. She co-directs the Red River Valley Writing
Project, a local site of the National Writing Project. Her poetry, short
fiction, and essays have appeared in online journals and print journals.
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