I want to ask, what boundaries? I want to say, I swing wide open, fences crushed— the kids stampede across the screen. My students snigger. I yell, yet again, Don't hit your brother! Why are you hitting him! My bedroom door won't shut. My daughter kicks in her sleep. My office is my kitchen; my kitchen spills to the floor. The mess spills out of the cupboards. My toddler pulls out the drawers. Outside the bathroom, they hammer the door. I have nothing left to say. Words have floated away. My brain hums white noise. I want to say, I've faded to an outline. I want to say, no outline, a smudge. I know you want to say that you are all doing great, she says. She says, Work from the laundry room; She says, Use a walk-in closet. I imagine a door, shut to an embrace of coats; imagine pressing the back wall, how it yields.