Somewhere Between Here and There

you left him.

the house disagrees.

cupboards swell and settle.

hinges stutter laughter.

doors refuse closing.

he is my blood.

you—trespass.

a key i never named but

carried.

the gifts remain.

cardboard throats

swelling shut.

boxes holding their breath,

a choir gagged

in dust.

not weeping.

grief is the table

dragging itself an inch

to the left.

the lamp listing.

air, miswritten—

a draft where no window is open.

his footsteps—

iron.

iron again.

iron still.

each strike

a collapse inside him.

the timber keeps score.

so does my chest.

i wait.

for the latch to lift,

for air to split,

for your unfinished voice—

and then stop.

the room tilted.

still tilted.

© Heather Zoccali 2025

I wrote this poem from the seam between knowing and feeling — where the body refuses the logic the mind has already signed.