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Breaking the Dark I learned the house by walking through the dark, the swollen board, the shoulder of the door, the wall that took the measure of my hands. Some nights I almost called you by your name. The kettle clicked. The stove clock shed its light. I drank beside your coat and called it home. There was so much of you still being home: your shoes beneath the bench, their mouths gone dark, the window where you used to catch the light and turn, forgetting why you’d tried the door. I couldn’t give the smallest things a name that didn’t leave them shaking in my hands. So much of grief is work that needs your hands. The sheets come off. The groceries come home. A woman on the phone requests your name. I tell her. Outside, rain has made it dark. She asks if you can speak. I watch the door. The phone grows warm. The screen gives off its light. By March I’d started sleeping with the light still burning in the hall. I washed my hands and left the bathroom open at the door. I dreamed you had forgotten the way home and needed something shining through the dark, some yellow square that still recalled your name. The morning that I stopped saying your name before I spoke, I nearly blamed the light. It lay across the bed. The room was dark where I had curled around my empty hands. A bird had built beneath the eaves of home and dropped a length of string outside the door. I picked it up and stood there at the door. The neighbor waved. She knew me by my name. She asked if I had plans. I looked at home: the dusty glass, the curtains holding light. I took their heavy fabric in my hands and pulled until the rings broke through the dark. The curtains pooled like water at the door; my hands held dust. I said your name into the light. Then opened every window of our dark, unfinished home. ~ cmj