The vacuum-packed clothes are a clue,
the one you’re told before returning:
“They have to seal them up to clean them off,
suck the dust into shatterproof bins.”
You’ll try not to think you’re being accused
of anything, of leaving a window open
on a warm September morning, just wide
enough for the poison to slip in for someone
else to deal with. It’s not as if you should
suspect buildings of collapse, right,
even after they’ve been run through?
And yet the astronaut footprints
just in front of the refrigerator remind you
of how little a hero you’ve become.
Erica Wright is the author of Instructions for Killing the Jackal(Black
Lawrence Press, 2011) and a chapbook, Silt (Dancing Girl Press, 2009). Her
poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Blackbird, Denver Quarterly,
Drunken Boat, From the Fishouse, New Orleans Review, and elsewhere. She
is the Poetry Editor at Guernica Magazine and teaches creative writing at
Marymount Manhattan College. She hails from Wartrace, Tennessee.