Yesterday I thought that I’d take the bus, yet
I dreaded balancing the two luggage bags, both
Plastered to my side. After deciding
To stay, reluctant but certain, I now sit in the simmering
Elbow of my crumpled bed, neck folded and head
Hunched. Goblets of sleet line the windowsill.
There’s a woman outside—hair sorted into uncorrelated
Portions, fraying knots tethered to her scalp. She grasps at her hair,
Prying her own mouth open—one, two, three—and graying
Teeth cascade down her apron.
I’ll be honest: I feel guilty when I position
Myself away from her. She’d assorted a fragile
Building in the past, fancying herself as a homemaker.
The house was nestled in the Southeast, small
Bricks and yellowed stone. Bricks last long,
Perhaps centuries and more, but the material
Failed to matter. In the end, the house faltered, and
The woman scampered across the street, cognizant
Of her remorse. It was gone. Since then,
She has been standing across my windowsill.
My apologies—I’ll watch her wriggle amidst the muck and
Allow her to continue mouthing the word, house, but
I plan to carelessly stretch my cramped neck and
Heave the window shut.
Lea Han ’26 (leahan@college.harvard.edu) writes poetry for the Independent.