by Andrea Kreidler

Created on: December 30, 2008   Last Updated: April 04, 2009

Remember when we housesat?

There was no food and we ate

peanut butter and graham crackers in bed,

rolling in the crumbs?

You blew a hit into my mouth making TV housewives

orgasming over laundry detergent insanely funny

Snow drifted silently outside

We shut the curtains on it

Home, the giant living room oil stain seeped up again,

curled doglike at the foot of our bed,

<>

<>our roommate</></>

<><> Unit 2 still smelled like dirt</></>

<></>

<>one kid popped out each year</>

<>God provided, but did not clean<>></></>

<><>It didn't matter where we were</>

</>

My home was in your arms

Our bed, stained red futon, the Universe

Our daughter arrived and

I never left her side because

her life seemed as fragile as

a sculpture built of toothpicks

She grew, attended Kindergarten

I looked around

You weren't there

She put the found dollar bills, rolled up tight as milkshake straws,

into her piggy bank

a new one always appeared, pushed under the couch

You saw people in trees, wearing camouflage, watching the house

and bought a gun

We left

You stayed but

I still think of you when I eat graham crackers or peanut butter or see snow

or futons or dollar bills or oil stains or trees or people or breathe air

Learn more about this author, Andrea Kreidler.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.