One of the buttons of my shirt had disappeared

Strange is the phenomenon of the oldest house
The home to which we all return
The position to which all compasses point

Strange is the phenomenon of the twin poles
whose hands, entwined, shepherd to one field
although the herd is often hesitant to join the crowd

Strange is the phenomenon of the forever place
To some, a rite of rapturous passage through gate
To others, your first front yard and only picket fence

But it does not stop at that lonely fence

The lawn may be sown thick with weed
Quilted with tufts of backstitch crabgrass
But you can exit that cruel horizon
at any time

You can pick up last Sunday’s paper
left to warp and wither in Monday’s rain
You can pull out the last of
last Halloween’s decrepit decor
left to stain and spoil in the Christmas cold

The oldest house can wait
Although its doors will remain unlocked
in anticipation of your rearrival

The prophet may foretell of the end times
The disciple may clutch his bead and chain
The believer may await His mercy
like a young soft lamb
confronted by the captive bolt gun
and mounted by heel to bleed

But you can exit at any time

To the corner store
for a 99-cent box of cordial cherries
To the park’s grassy hill
the genesis of so many
wet cuts and green bruises
To the camera store
In hopes of capturing
what it looked like back then

Then you can come back
from your years-long walk
I missed you so much!
the house will say
Are you ready to come home now?

Frances Chlebowski is a California-born poet and writer living in Austin, Texas. Their work has been featured in Hothouse Literary Journal, University of Texas Libraries Student Collection, and Birdhouse Books. They are a self-proclaimed haunted house enthusiast.