You come here like a stranger,
but this is your family home.
The currants, the apple and cherry trees don’t know you.
One noble tree readies
a new brood of walnuts in peace,
while the sun, like a worried first-grader,
diligently colors in the shadows.
The dining room pretends it is a crypt,
and doesn’t give out one familiar echo—
the old conversations haven’t lingered.
There, where your life doubtless
began, someone else’s television stutters.
But the cellar’s been collecting darknesses—
all the nights since you left
are snarled like the yarn of an old sweater
in which wild cats have nested.
You come here like a stranger,
but this is your family home.
—Translated by Clare Cavanagh