"Housesitting" by William Brewer

[View this email on a browser]( [Forward to a friend]( [facebook-icon]( [tumblr-icon]( [twitter-icon]( May 10, 2019 [Housesitting]( [William Brewer]( Ten pound art book about Berlin. Black and whites of a bear rifled down in a square, boys in sun on rubble, a woman wearing a gas mask pushing a pram. I was examining each photo for a glimpse of street corner or sidewalk, wondering if it could be the spot where my ancestor the roofer’s head smashed into the pavement when he fell, the loss that earned the payout that put his children on a boat that put me here, when I smelled something burning, but what began as an acrid odor softened to the familiar scent of bonfires, signature fragrance of the dying season. I never know where it’s coming from, but in it there’s always that warm anticipation of Halloween I remember, and within that the disappointment when it was never like the movies: no New England facades, no sidewalks choked with kids, there weren’t enough of us, and yet I hear children’s laughter like I’m there again, not in the memory, but the expectation— outside the window a girl is filming on her phone another girl tossing handfuls of red maple over her head. I can see on the screen the video playing in a short, closed loop. The leaves go up, then are rewound into her hands, never falling all the way into the grass over which they’re scattered now after she dropped them when suddenly a firetruck blared by, awaking at my feet the dog I’m paid to keep alive. [Like this on Facebook]( [Share via Twitter]( Copyright © 2019 William Brewer. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on May 10, 2019, by the Academy of American Poets. [Brewer reads "Housesitting."]( About This Poem “I love housesitting. It’s like living in an alternate reality. Everything is just a little different. I still feel like me, but because I’m in someone else’s material life, the present doesn’t link up with my past. I find that inhabiting this disjunction unlocks deep, and often forgotten, parts of memory, while also casting a strange spell over the moment. For that reason, I cherish it.” —William Brewer [William Brewer]( William Brewer is the author of I Know Your Kind (Milkweed Editions, 2017), a winner of the National Poetry Series. He is a Jones Lecturer at Stanford University and lives in Oakland, California. [I Know Your Kind]( Poetry by Brewer [I Know Your Kind]( (Milkweed Editions, 2017) "Writing Home" by Wendy Xu [read-more]( "We All Return to the Place Where We Were Born" by Oscar Gonzales [read-more]( "The Persistence of Symptoms" by Janine Joseph [read-more]( May Guest Editor: Victoria Chang Thanks to [Victoria Chang](, author of Barbie Chang (Copper Canyon Press, 2017), who curated Poem-a-Day for this month’s weekdays. Read a[Q&A with Chang]( about her curatorial approach this month and find out more about our [guest editors for the year.]( [make a one-time donation]( [illustration]( [Small-Blue-RGB-poets.org-Logo]( Thanks for being a part of the Academy of American Poets community. To learn about other programs, including National Poetry Month, Poem in Your Pocket Day, the annual Poets Forum, and more, visit [Poets.org](. You are receiving this e-mail because you elected to subscribe to our mailing list. If you would like to unsubscribe, please click [here](. © Academy of American Poets 75 Maiden Lane, Suite 901, New York, NY 10038