After the Shift, the House
The house is already in motion
when I step inside
a backpack open on the floor
one shoe missing
someone calling from upstairs
for something that cannot wait
I set my keys down
in the same place
a small act of order
no one notices
You meet me halfway
down the hall
arms full of something you made
paper folded into intention
Look
you say
and I do
before I take off my shoes
before I wash the hospital
from my hands
At the sink
I scrub longer than necessary
watch the water carry away
what it can
which is not everything
Later
I check the locks
turn off the lights
stand for a moment
in each doorway
as if counting
as if this is how I keep you
Veronica Tucker is an emergency medicine and addiction medicine physician, mother of three, and lifelong New Englander. Her writing explores the intersections of medicine, motherhood, memory, and the human experience. A Pushcart Prize nominee, her work has appeared in ONE ART: a journal of poetry, The Berlin Literary Review, and Rust & Moth, among others.