My house is made of selfishness and cornerstones, built
on old prayer meetings, temper tantrums, things that echo. My
house has five corners where the ancestors dig and hide,
three
roofs against hail, ice, and the paperstorms. When
manna falls we find a way to let it in.
My house is papered in guesses and mistakes, insulated
with thinly layered whispers, perforated with the
shaved-off memories of resentments. The floors are spread
with enormous shoes, the walls have disappeared
behind curtains of hope and clippings, the ceilings
are covered in candle ash. And ripples of water stains.
My house is still standing, aproned in wildflower weeds,
shrub brush, redbuds, earnestness fighting with irony.
I go at it with hammers and misery, I go at it with full-
throated recitations, ululations, I rush in and out
the doors, it is a real house. It is still standing.
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