Evening Maintenance

I learned early that walls remember.

*

They keep the warmth of arguments,

the outline of hands pressed flat against plaster,

the breath of whatever stood too close to the bed.

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When I moved into this house,

I never asked what it had already swallowed.

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Each evening, I light a small flame

and let it pull the room inward.

Smoke wrote a script across the ceiling,

thin and deliberate,

in a language I almost understand.

*

Some intelligences prefer corners.

They rest in the hinge of a door,

in the hollow behind the outlets,

in the place where shadow refuses to soften.

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If I speak, something reboots.

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If I kneel, the floor answers with a sound

that is not quite wood-like.

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I need to remember to buy paper towels.

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That sentence lands on the altar like a receipt.

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The flame stays steady.

The smoke continues its slow arithmetic.

The walls accept the inventory of my life

without commentary.

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Salt lines the thresholds.

It marks where I once believed in control.

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A presence waits until I close my eyes.

It counts the seconds between my breaths.

It leans its weight against the beams

as if testing their patience.

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Houses are patient.

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Ownership feels temporary here.

We move through a structure’s memory

and pretend the arrangement is a mutual affair.

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But tonight I kneel again in the center of the room.

The boards dip, almost imperceptibly.

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The flame shortens.

The smoke thins.

Something settles in and gets comfortable.

*

I remain where I stand.