Jon Naskrent

What do you know of home? The lord asks me.
I am carefully wrapping plates in thin newspaper cushions
and putting them gently into boxes. Don’t push me on this I answer.
What do you know of it? he asks again.
It is everything. It is the cupboard where Martin
hid his chocolate bars for bonfires.
It is John and Arija making pancakes on Saturday morning
confronting the Betty Crocker cookbook despite having done it
every week for three months. It is Patrick doing the dishes
in the sink, rubbing the rough-side of the sponge over
the mold that’d begun to grow in the pot I’d cooked the soup in
yesterday evening. It is Danielle, on the floor, watching me
restring the guitar, the thin steel cutting into my stone-callouses.
Here, we have everything you could want the lord comments
as I push the mop against the dirt and grime that’s collected on the floor,
washing it away and dipping it into
the grey, gross water. It is everything I tell him,
lifting another load into the back of the trailer
to take with me someplace else