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Bobby Elliott
Going Home
Mary tells us to cherish every inch
of you, from the bruise
the vacuum left to the toes
I count twice, and maybe it’s fear
that has us weeping
in the doorway, maybe
it's joy — your life
in our hands now
no one else's as we smile
for the photograph, our first
as a family, then hurry
to the car, a virus
on the loose and the sky
so thick with wildfire smoke
it's a miracle we make it
home, our neighbors
watching from their
windows as we whisk
you in, brushing ash
like snow from your blanket.