It’s Always Broken Here

27 Dec

There are remnants in the cupboards
They might not look like much

Those lamps. Those pin trays. That basket. Who but me
Would understand how these go together?

Here, in the middle
A pit of selenite
Over seashells from a dumpster
Over small rocks from here. And under them, bricks, set carefully into the soil.

The bricks are migrants too. They came from the neighbor’s grandmother.
Who died, and I watched her irises fail
Though not entirely

The brick guy was the grandfather. His milk barn next door was torched fifteen years back. I heard it scared the dogs.

I was living across town that day. My housemate came one morning to say he’d read the paper and we should go see to my house.

“Has it burned down?” I asked, sitting outside in the morning sun.

“Maybe,” he said.

So we drove off away on his morning mission and we looked at the fire engine tracks in my easement. And I looked at all the dead grass.

And I never finished that fire pit
The one with the bricks
From the guy next door
Who was dead when my other ex-housemate got here
My other ex-housemate who’s also dead
The one who started building the fire pit.
I’m not sure about the earlier one
Though I hear he’s not doing well.

I just got inspired one day
To fill the fire pit up with whatever I could find upon the premises
Which wound up all stone and shell, and finally selenite
More rock from my extinct past.

There is still a slight depression there
But no risk that I will trip in the dark, with all that shining at me.

 

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