Collateral

Collateral

I used to think
how the uterus is shaped like a house
slated for repossession,
how I'd keep only her name
as polished collateral.

After a seasonal stay,
I'd reclaim my space for the summer.
A hollow thump, thump, thump
would signal bitter eviction,
tenant shoved
onto the lawn,
gasping for air
among her strewn-about furniture.

I'd sneak into the kitchen,
snatch a silver spoon
from a splintered cupboard:
the sliver of domestic flair
to a room rented in cash.

Yet nothing could warn a landlord
of that moving sadness,
of the silence, a cramp,
when no one remains.

I found myself running after a van
with a car seat in tow;
I did not fear for her next home
but for the solitude of mine.

And now when I summon the reason,
clearing packing peanuts from a two-ton box
I find her name somewhere at the bottom,
glistening.