A Home of Our Own
Corpses lined the sunset:
Here’s the place, she said,
never mind the midden.
Past the fence we’ll leave our messes
and on the porch I won’t remember things.
In this stanza
we will sleep,
In this one
we will rest.
And by lowering the den and bending up the trellis
we will raise this house’s logic: we can nestle it up
to the canopy and build a few more desks,
raze the untimely vine and varnish all the stucco,
eat a dinner of turnips and light just a few fireworks,
procreate a foosball team and pad the beach with mortar,
enact some major laws and steal some loaves of bread.
I struggled. I asked: what do we do now? She scoffed
while she dragged a corpse through the living room.
She told me a story about her needlepoint.