by David Anson Lee

On the first morning, the house misnames me:
not cruelly, but like a tongue relearning a language
it once survived without consent.

The faucet exhales yesterday’s weather.
Light slips through blinds as if undecided
whether it has chosen to stay.

I unpack nothing.
Even the air keeps its distance
like a letter returned without forwarding grief.

In the kitchen, a bowl I did not buy
already holds fruit I did not select:
apples bruised like inherited decisions,
a pear splitting open mid-confession.

I call this a beginning,
but beginnings should not echo.

At night, the walls rehearse my footsteps
without asking me to exist inside them.

And still I remain:
not arriving, not leaving,
only learning how to be mistaken
for belonging.

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About the Author:

David Anson Lee is a physician, philosopher, and writer based in Texas. He trained in medicine and philosophy at Boston University and completed ophthalmology residency at the Mayo Clinic, and fellowship at Harvard. His poetry explores themes of memory, embodiment, and inherited narrative, and has appeared in journals including Right Hand Pointing, Ink Sweat & Tears, and Eunoia Review, among others. His favorite apple is the Papple.