by Samantha Sweigert
I named the light switches. Said goodnight to little things.
We didn’t talk about the garage until I was old enough.
Wood paneled walls killed our hermit crabs. It was good here.
Money made ceilings higher. Summers through the Fall.
Cats lived in the walls. A warzone of freezer food.
Sliding-glass doors sealed in daytime-TV. I stole the car.
First floor, ice storm. More like cabinets than doors.
I go back—I go back—I go back.
(East Keller Street)
Jesus in the dishes. Severed ties with Disney.
A litany of living things I forgot to water. The lost and found.
(West Chestnut Street)
Ghosts here, so I go back.
(West Lemon Street)
Samantha Sweigert lives in Lancaster, Pennsylvania in a house full of writers on a street named after a fruit. She spends most of her time wishing she could sleep in and looks for her life in prepositional phrases.
Photo by Michelle Johnsen, Ladybug in a Beehive