The mother of the self
lives only houses away,
but there is no welcome sign
on the mat between the potted mums.

Gutter-water burns on the threshold.
The paper skin of a maple leaf
luffs against the bay window.
The storm door snaps shut.

One entrance lies on top
of the mole hill in the front yard,
but the untamed pest blocks
the burrow to the center hall.

Reunite with she who recoils
at touch. Homecoming is a
promise seared on the outside
and raw in the middle.