Who took away the mosque-
shaped clock that was here?
And the porcelain cumquats,
where are they?            Gone
with father’s Lindberg Baby
chafing dish, no doubt.

I remember closing the door
before we went upstairs, now
it’s open. Look, there are wet
leaves pressed into the rug,
someone must have come in
while we gave each other
our injections.

How did we not hear? What
else was taken? Why do so
many cures smell like new
office buildings? I tell you,
we should search this house,
cellar to weathervane.

If we find thieves, we’ll take
back what’s ours. If we find
no thieves, we’ll make a list
of all we have yet to lose
and get busy yearning.

© Brendan Constantine, all rights reserved. This poem originally appeared in the journal RUNES. It also appears in the chapbook Crimewave.

Brendan Constantine is a Southern California poet and champion for the literary arts. He teaches at the Winward School and is well known for his workshops at Venice's Beyond Baroque. He performs his work across the United States.(more)