My owners opened me to strangers
all my life. I house snowbirds, impress
weekenders, retirees, turn myself
inside out, season after season, summer
into fall. I upgrade constantly, interrogate
my scaffolding and all the touches
one expects to please, but the bones
of my existence bear your own
indelibly: I indulge my tenants’ hunger—
longing is my raison d’être. All this time,
I’ve held your breath—praise you gave
the ocean view from the boardwalk,
emptiness you may have expressed,
unwound for a week’s vacation—now I exhale
to free you from this space:
at one level—at so many—how you were known.
The sun you watched rise over the dunes
from the patio sets, resets. Diabetic shoes you wore
when feeling left your feet left no mark
on the porcelain tile, which to this day
appreciates forgiveness: give
and take, the net sum of our wanderings.
Let me say the guest book loved your leafing,
reading what who came before had left.
The closet that sheltered your few simple shirts
wishes everyone could be so easy
to protect. Memory foam in the queen
mattress made unusual accommodation
of your long, heavy body. Comfort layers
in the plush endure, depressed.
The bedside lamp you read beside until midnight
burns for you tonight. When you moved from earth
to dust or starlight—if it matters—
fronds from a silk palm in the bedroom
brushed another lover’s shoulder gently passing
in the night. They would tell you touch
remembers touch. No one knows the ways
we let each other go.
–
Sarah Carey is the author of two poetry chapbooks, including Accommodations (2019), winner of the Concrete Wolf Chapbook Contest. Her work has appeared recently or is forthcoming in Stirring, Yemassee, Grist, and Atlanta Review. Visit her on Twitter @SayCarey1.