My mother is putting one foot before the other,
is being her sister’s keeper. Across the river,
I bring a pineapple loaf to the pot luck,
baked from a pineapple left on the snowy sidewalk. 
Welcome, it means in some cultures.
Be at home, here.

This is all I need for myself—to be taken in,
rescued from being overlooked, overstepped. 
It’s not so much, I think. 

I’m not complaining,
my mother says, after losing all her other siblings, 
shepherding them to their end. But don’t come here,
she says, drowning in the dysfunction,
their own mother dead. The home when one has
a hoarding disorder becomes in fact uninhabitable.
And yet the person does not wish to leave.

It’s not illegal to love one another,
but it is hard, yes.
Try doing it and feel the world shift. Like
a bracing gust of winter wind, 
waking you up. Like a ripening fruit. 
Then scoop out the insides.