Molly Sutton Kiefer
The Recent History of Middle Sand Lake (II)

has an empty boat moored upon cinder blocks,
a picked-over compost heap, the squirrels long since
having their fill, and the full, lonely moon. Books
have been stacked into boxes, furniture taped-over,
plastic blanketing, the rug's grooves mended.
There's always that lingering, the last time in the doorway,
the finality of a light switch, going out.
Keys have slid into white paper envelopes, names
scrawled across the front: uncle, father, the split-half
of everything, the line-up of crated goods and second selves.
At night, in the hotel room along the highway, my husband and I
rub our feet raw beneath cheap cotton sheets, keeping warm,
that furnace-blast of love, the remembrance of contours,
the filling up of something never emptied.