Seasonal

by Claire Millikin

In the years of his marriage cracking up
he’d live in our house seasonally.
He’d live there in winter, we in summer.

At the end of each spring, returning
from a series of temporary teaching gigs
in the house we’d find beers filling the fridge;
sleeping pills stacked in kitchen cabinets;
cigarette cartons decolletagé in hallway closet.

He’d shrug, stow his gear in the garage.
Say his wife kicked him out again,
it wasn’t right the way she treated him.

The house hurt in his care, bed legs popped from frames,
curtains torn and stained, towels ripped apart
until I could no longer mend them.
Starting over each summer,
with our small stash of salary buying
back all that could not be fixed.

At last, we told him, don’t come back.
He threatened to kill her,
then disappeared.  I thought of the sleeping pills
box on box, some from doctors, some drugstores —
Unisom, Nyquil, Tylenol PM — typical stuff.
At last he shored up at his mother’s

and he’d no longer speak to us.  Down the hill at the foot
of the house the harbor rocked, slow water, flat
as a fallen door, a sign posted immemorial
Boats Cast No Wake

Now no wake, this is the story of a house
caught in human ways.

The fishermen push out just before dawn.
I see them through the window
of my insomnia, a seasonal affliction.