by Laurinda Lind

At our lake house, swallows built nests
above the door that swallowed our family
until we got restless enough to walk out
as through a whale and in through our new/

old city door, at a house in a former movie
theater where all those projected fantasies
shaped our own, night after night. But
twenty years and only thirty miles later,

we aren’t there anymore, either, we are
as figurines that fate moved into this high
hallway past a boundary inset on all sides
with glass that holds a memory poured

from sandstone and local lead mines a long,
long time ago. We are a map made of souls in
what used to be a town, but is now the same as
each of us: a doorway between other places.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: Somehow, my whole life, I kept moving in with my parents, or they moved in with me.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Laurinda Lind lives in New York’s North Country. Some publications/ acceptances are in Blue Earth Review, Midwest Quarterly, New American Writing, Paterson Literary Review, and Spillway; also anthologies Visiting Bob: Poems Inspired by the Life and Work of Bob Dylan (New Rivers Press), AFTERMATH: Explorations of Loss and Grief (Radix Media), What I Hear When Not Listening (Sonic Boom), and Planet in Crisis (Foothills Publishing).