Chances Are

You know where they hide the key, 
the flowerpot with the dead rosemary 
that reaches up like a fingered arm. It is wet 
with earthworms and slides into its lock. 
In the kitchen the dishes wink 
in their cabinets, all clean as rain. The quiet 
is heavy, though you expect to find Nora’s mother 
floating in a half sleep, ghost in pink nightgown. 
You do not know where to begin. You touch 
the door that gives to a room of unused things—
a white sewing machine, gated fireplace, the piano 
Nora used to tease to song. You touch the smooth 
wood—what is it, mahogany?—and linger. 
You cannot remember what songs you can play, 
where to start the Do of the jangle of Chopsticks. 
A cat raises its drowsy head on the couch 
to look at you, then licks its paw. You are going 
the wrong way, but you know this. On the wall, 
Nora smiles brightly at you from the beach, 
her third grade belly swathed in red polka dot. 
You wish you’d known her then, when the world 
could be made of Dollar Store buckets, a horizon 
of sand. Then you see yourself in the glass, smaller 
than you’ve been in years, a thatch of brown hair 
tucked behind one ear. You circle back and push 
the door to the garage. The hinges are a child’s scream 
in the dark. But you know it’s there, always 
damp from storm, the kind that smells 
like Tennessee and too much rye. It is there, 
sheeted in tarp and a promise of repair
like all garaged things. You remember trees 
and a highway as black as burnt pine. Remember 
the womanly curve in the road, the echoing bird 
trill in the thick night. Remember the way an engine 
growls to life like grouse in a field. You stand 
in the cold dark. You do not turn on the light. 
You never turn on the light.

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