When the power goes out,
we gather in the kitchen
as if it is some ancient agreement.
Someone finds candles.
Someone opens the windows.
Rain taps gently on the roof
as a guest that is aware of our presence.
And in the absence of the hum in the refrigerator,
unless the television should be seen clashing with itself,
we hear things we supposed we had last summer—
atmospheric, snorting, steadily, the match hit.
The house feels smaller,
and therefore safer.
We repeat things that we had told.
No one complains.
When the lights return,
we wink, nearly disappointed,
as though modern life
has broken in upon something sacred.
Later, alone in my room,
I understand:
home is not the walls—
it is the manner in which we naturally.
move toward one another
when the dark arrives.
