The cicadas are loudest
the year breath becomes a stranger.

Sunlight slices through the blinds
like a judgment.

Milk spoils in the bottle.
My body forgets its name.
Even the baby’s cries
return to me doubled,
as if the walls
are trying to help.

I rock without rhythm,
count clouds from the porch,
watch the dog chase nothing
and win.

There are ants in the sink again.
I do not kill them.
Even they
are trying
to carry something home.

---

Veronica Tucker is a poet, physician, and mother of three living in New Hampshire. Her work explores the intersections of care, memory, and being human. Her poems have appeared in One Art, Red Eft Review, and redrosethorns. More can be found at veronicatuckerwrites.com and on Instagram @veronicatuckerwrites.