No art

I refuse to dance the acceptance dance–
perform the thing I loathe–the therapy-speak
for a grief difficult to name, but one that, at its peak
might be called a homelessness of sorts. I had a place–
I’ve had places–but none stick. My defiance
is not-to pause to mourn. Each new house I race
to mark as mine tho I know all to be impermanent.
But so is life I mouth, pretending to some
unearned arc of enlightenment. There is a rhythm
to these losses which are never about a door
a roof, a yard. The lives I wasn’t meant
to lead I trash, soullessly sweeping, polishing floors
to shine for each next tenant. But who will dwell
in deserted Kirstens? I leave–unloved–her, hovel.