closed and open

1.
tightly bound
within my winter coat

hands balled
into fists
jammed into pockets

fingers curled
against the rough edges
of you apartment keys

leaving the imprint of a memory
that there is a place
to open
to go home

2.
you open me to
believing sunlight should be
always drenching me

left behind, or in boxes

when I look for a pan at grandma's to make grilled cheese

an order that makes sense to you
an iron in the oven
locked in a place unused
a house cold and dusty

all the dinners
you can't remember how to make dinner

***

when you eat the jambalaya I made for a second night

a bowl of leftovers
tucked in your fridge
makes me feel like I'm still waiting for you

***

when you tell me what we actually picked up from your dad's house

like a comedy
where everything goes wrong
you say we have a body in the trunk
all that's left of your mom
nonchalantly tucked in with your old books

finally getting to share a joke with her
like we've met on this unconventional road trip