"Home" by Megan Turner

Across the room,
their skin was touching mine.
Them.
With their steel carriages.
With their goddamn its.
With their children
breathing air
that was not mine.

There are fears of thank you,
of the bagger who smiles.

I keep feeling for my hair,
keep looking through those aisles
of blonde tubing.

      ***

Everything in the same place.
Here, the carpet. The table.
The box.
At night, the smell of my sheets
won’t let me sleep. I can’t
remember
the way I used to turn my pillow.