My grandmother’s kitchen is the same
big and yellow and smelling of the pound cake
she’s made to welcome us back.
And now in the late afternoon, she is standing
at the sink, tearing collards beneath
cool running water, while the crows caw outside,
and the sun sinks slow into red and gold
When Hope lets the screen door slam,
she fusses,
Boy, don’t you slam my door again! and my brother says,
I’m sorry.
Just like always.
Soon, there’ll be lemonade on the porch,
the swing whining the same early evening song
it always sings
my brother and sister with the checker set between them
me next to my grandfather, falling asleep against
his thin shoulder.
And it’s not even strange that it feels the way
it’s always felt
like the place we belong to.
Like home.