Homer by Molly Johnsen

​Homer 
 
I worry about the wildfires. I make flames 
in my mind, send them rolling through 
the dry to your apartment: inside. 
I used to invent the shape of your home, 
but now I am here, and I know. The place 
reeks of what I hope is the former tenant’s 
smoke. No sunlight to speak of, and the sliding door  
sticks. Your pillow is a sweatshirt. Out on the patio, 
 
your avocado tree promises that living things  
exist (when Dad told me how expensive it was,  
I didn’t tell him I know where you make your  
real money). You carry the reaching tree in and  
out of the sunlight; you water it with a hose and  
brush bugs from its branches. I don’t ask you  
when the avocados will grow. In that old 
 
t-­shirt, your shoulders are new. A balled­-up 
sun dries out the day behind the curtain; the kitchen  
hums. I send myself to WalMart to buy you 
a bathmat; the bags I bring back are full of  
manly-­looking homewares and those 
granola bars you like. I unpack it all slowly, 
so you’ll have time to thank me. Space Fills. You 
 
look back at me and you don’t roll your eyes; 
I guess you don’t do that anymore. Fires build. 
When I think of you here, alone, after work, I pry  
California from the map and carry you home on my back.  

​

Bio: Molly Johnsen received an M.A. from the Bread Loaf School of English at Middlebury College, where she participated in a poetry workshop with Tracy K. Smith. She has also worked with Natalie Shapero at the Kenyon Review Writers Workshop. 

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