what happened
but it cannot say. In its center:
a hole
             covered by paper held
in place by tape. Apples
says the paper. Milk. Eggs.
The hole’s the size
of a human heart fringed
with splintered wood. The bathroom’s fleshy
coral-pink and smells so sharp of soap it tingles
tears from eyes. Tissues,
says the paper. Mouthwash. Deodorant.
If the paper veil were lifted it would reveal
the toilet, the fluffy rug that’s still askew,
the rickety step before the sink
where the child stands when her mother
helps her wash. If you were there right now
they’d return your gaze, all faces
level with the hole. Shhh, says the mother
using only her lips. Keep quiet
and we’ll be safe. Baloney
says the paper. Every day
it changes but it’s always the same. Fruit
Punch. Band Aids.
More Tape.

About the poet: Rose Strode is a poet, essayist, rehabilitator of overgrown gardens, and a field teacher at Mass Audubon. When not writing or helping others with their writing she wanders around the woods of New England with her dog. Read her work in New Ohio Review, Terrain.org, The Gettysburg Review, The Broadsided Review and at rosestrode.com