Molly Sutton Kiefer The Recent History of Middle Sand Lake (II) has an empty boat moored upon cinder blocks, a picked-over compost heap, the squirrels long since having their fill, and the full, lonely moon. Books have been stacked into boxes, furniture taped-over, plastic blanketing, the rug's grooves mended. There's always that lingering, the last time in the doorway, the finality of a light switch, going out. Keys have slid into white paper envelopes, names scrawled across the front: uncle, father, the split-half of everything, the line-up of crated goods and second selves. At night, in the hotel room along the highway, my husband and I rub our feet raw beneath cheap cotton sheets, keeping warm, that furnace-blast of love, the remembrance of contours, the filling up of something never emptied.

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