I walked into the house
And knew right away
That my mom
Had already left
It was the smell
Incense
From my grandfather’s
Shrine
That gave it away
And like the purring
Engine
The residual warmth
Of a car
It gave away the
Recent presence
Of my mother

Our bodies are
Hour glasses
Not in the shape
But in the way
It keeps time
The hair growing
At different rates
From the nails
The decay
And extensions
Thereof
Like the contact lenses
Drying out
Letting me know
That two weeks
Have passed and
That I need to replace
Them

It collapses
time and space
and in so doing
makes
its presence known
like an accordion

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